


Vicious Circle

by SunnySidesofBlue



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, M/M, Non-Consensual, Past Abuse, Rape, Sensory Deprivation, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 09:17:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunnySidesofBlue/pseuds/SunnySidesofBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smokescreen thought he’d left his past behind him but now an all too tangible ghost is back to haunt him in ways he could never have imagined. He's been through hell once before but will he have the strength to survive it now that the circle starts again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first fanfic I ever wrote (or rather started writing, since it is still unfinished). The first part was originally posted on the LJ kinkmeme in june 2011 but after a while I got sidetracked writing _Lost in Darkness_ and this story was put on hold for almost two years. Now that I'm finally coming back to it I decided to post it here as well even though it's not yet complete. 
> 
> Apart from correcting typos and the odd change in wording I'm not going to rework the text of the original nine chapters. While I may have written parts of it differently today I think the story works pretty well as it is, and I like to keep it unchanged as a kind of documentation if nothing else.

He came online to total darkness. Not the familiar, comfortable semi-darkness of his own quarters at night, where his holo spheres emitted a warm green light, but complete blackness. _Strange_ , he thought, still half in recharge, and sent a command for the light panels in the ceiling to activate.

Nothing happened.

_What? They worked perfectly fine yesterday_ , his not yet fully online processor protested. _I'll bet anything Sides has hacked them and changed the access codes again. When I get my hands on the slagger..._ He tried to sit up, only to discover that he couldn't. Something was holding him down.

That woke him up alright.

Smokescreen had found himself in many a strange situation, usually courtesy of his betting habits, but this was definitely a new one. Furthermore, he couldn't really imagine how any of his currently running wagers could have resulted in this. He tried the restraints and found them quite firm and beyond his ability to break. Also, with his systems finally fully online, his sensory net now alerted him to the fact that something was covering the plating of the upper part of his face.

_So, I'm blindfolded as well_ , he thought, not sure whether to be alarmed or amused and decided to reserve judgment for later.

He tried to remember what he might have been doing to get himself into this position. Had there been a party? Check. High grade? Check. Sideswipe's high grade? Um, check. But as far as he could remember he'd only had two cubes, hardly enough to get overcharged and certainly not to black out.

The last thing he remembered with any clarity was him and Bluestreak going for a gulp of air at the entrance of the Ark. The two Datsuns usually sneaked out now and then during parties, since all the sensory input from their sensitive door wings tended to lock up their processors otherwise. Smokescreen strongly suspected that was one of the reasons Prowl never showed his face plates at any large and crowded gatherings if he could help it. But then again, his elder brother had never been much of a social mech anyway.

Well, he and Blue had been watching the stars and chatting amicably about nothing in particular, that much he remembered, but after that everything was a blur.

He tested the restraints once again. Whoever had applied them had done so with alarming skill. They were tight enough not to leave him any wriggle room, but not so tight as to actually harm him, though it was certainly uncomfortable. Was this some kind of prank? He knew from experience that Sideswipe could get perversely creative when he was overcharged, as could Jazz, although this wasn't really the saboteur's style. If this indeed turned out to be a part of the red Lamborghini twin's endless attempts to amuse himself Smokescreen was going to make sure that he regretted the fact. He generally approved of Sideswipe's pranking since it made life around the base more interesting, but that didn't mean he enjoyed being on the receiving end of one.

Since he couldn't move or see, he fell back to using his other senses in an attempt to figure out at least where he might be. He was fairly certain he was not in his own quarters – the air didn't smell right, and it was a tad cooler then he'd have liked. He fine-tuned his audio receptors to search for identifiable sounds in the vicinity. It was not until then he realized just how remarkably quiet it was. No faint murmurings from distant conversations, no echoing steps, no creaking of metal, nothing. For a second he wondered whether his hearing had been tampered with as well as his vision, but no – he had no problem hearing the slight sounds of his own systems or the tapping of his fingers against the surface he was strapped to. No, his audios were fine, it was just eerily quiet. Was the Ark really ever this quiet? Must be in some very far away corner in that case, he concluded. He knew for certain he was not outdoors; with all its animals, plants and wind this planet was never completely silent, no matter when or where.

He checked his chronometer to see if the time could offer any clues, and was startled to realize that it had been disconnected. Now that was disconcerting, to say the least. He doubted even an overcharged Sideswipe would go that far. Unless it was some kind of wager, of course, Sides didn't really like losing and would sometimes go to incredible lengths to win a bet.

The sound of a door hissing open somewhere to his right startled him out of his musings. He heard someone enter and then the door was shut again. Instinctively he turned his face towards the sound, blind though he was.

“Hello? Who's there?” he asked. “What's all this about?”

There was no answer. All he heard was the quiet humming of the other's systems as whoever it was came closer. To a mech like Jazz that would probably have been enough for identification, but Smokescreen had never been any good at that kind of thing.

“Sides, is that you?” he asked, a little disturbed by the total lack of response. ”'Cause if it is, you are so slagged when I get loose.”

Silence greeted him once more, and it was slowly starting to freak him out.

“Primus, mech, answer!”

Suddenly he felt a light touch on his right pede. Two fingers then slowly traced a line up his shin, thigh, hip, waist, chest and neck until finally stopping on his left cheek after what was unmistakably a caress.

“What...” Smokescreen began, but the rest of the words stuck in his vocalizer as another hand was placed on one of his door wings, slowly fondling the sensitive appendage. After tracing a ghost of a caress along the Autobot's yellow chevron the first hand joined the other in caressing the edges of the door wing and Smokescreen couldn't help but moan as the gentle touches set his sensory net aflame. It made him positively ache for more.

“What... do you... think... you're doing?” he managed to ask while the logical part of his processor tried to make sense of the situation and failed. Suddenly all he could focus on was those hands that skilfully manipulated his door wings and made all sorts of wonderful things to his sensor net. He had to struggle hard to get his processor out of the numbing haze of rising pleasure. No matter how nice it felt, he did not like to be... handled like this without his express consent or even knowing who the frag his partner was.

“Stop that! What do you think... This isn't funny, let me go!” He pulled against the restraints with all his might, but of course it was still no use. He thought he heard the faintest hint of a snicker and suddenly he felt one hand letting go of his door wing, only to reappear on his thigh, stroking slowly and suggestively upwards until it reached his interface cover, where it stopped and gently massaged the panel. The tied down Autobot couldn't hold back a needy whimper at the sensation.

“Oh Primus!” he moaned as he involuntary arched into the touch as much as his restraints would allow him. _I don't want this, I do_ NOT _want this!_ he kept telling himself, but his frame was obviously of a different opinion. His cooling fans kicked up yet another level as soft lips began tracing the upper edges of his increasingly sensitive panel. He could feel his spike throbbing beneath the cover, eager for direct contact with those maddeningly erotic touches.

“Stop! Stop this!” he said in as firm and serious a tone as he could manage, though the thickness of his voice rather belied the message of the words.

The hand stroking his panel slowly worked its way downwards and in between his legs. Smokescreen only half managed to suppress another groan of pleasure and when the hand slowly but firmly coaxed his interface cover open no override command in the universe could stop the panel from obligingly sliding back. Whoever the unknown molester was, he played his victim's systems like a true virtuoso.

Smokescreen's vocalizer hitched a strangled _gah!_ as a finger slowly worked its way into his valve. One part of him wanted to protest, wanted to tell the other to get the Pit away from – and, more importantly, out of – him, let him loose and finally let him know who he was dealing with. The other part, though, was screaming at him to shut up and enjoy the treatment, because it felt fragging amazing! His fans were working furiously by now to keep his internal temperature at a reasonable level, but the charge in his systems was building with increasing speed and would soon reach levels uncomfortable to contain.

A second finger joined the first one and as they began scissoring in search for the highly sensitive nodes lining the quickly lubricating valve, Smokescreen could no longer hold back a gasp of pure pleasure.

“No... please... hnng... please stop...” he hissed, not even managing to convince himself that the words were seriously meant. To his amazement and disappointment at some level the fingers were retracted, leaving the sensor nodes in his valve aching for further stimulation. He squirmed uncomfortably as a full out battle took place in his processor between the side of him that only wanted to shout “please, frag me senseless!” and the part that clutched on to what small amount of dignity he had left and refused to admit defeat.

The decision was rather efficiently taken from him as the straps that had held his legs down were suddenly removed, his thighs pushed apart and a warm, wet glossa suddenly entered his valve.

“GAAAH!” Smokescreen screamed as the wonderful sensation finally pulverized what resistance was left in him, leaving only a quivering heap of burning desire.

“Please...” he whimpered, his voice riddled with static. “Please... need... oh Primus!” he moaned as the soft intruder found a particularly sensitive area, sending his temperature soaring once again.

He tried to say something more, but his vocalizer only managed to produce static as the excess charge in his systems kept building and was pushing him towards overload. Obviously the other mech realized as much as well and, much to Smokescreen's displeasure, decided it wasn't time for that yet and withdrew completely, leaving the frustrated and oh-so-turned-on Autobot hanging just on the wrong side of the edge. If he'd only been able to find his voice Smokescreen would have screamed, yelled at the lousy fragger to come back and finish the job. He once again pulled as hard as he possibly could against his restraints, threw his head back and forth to add some momentum to the force, but the bonds refused to give. His intakes were quick and shallow, not doing much to help cooling his overheating frame. The pent up charge was borderline painful by now, but there wasn't really anything he could do about it by himself. Unable to stop himself he kept tossing from side to side in frustration, his systems sparkling with desire and need.

“Oh, come on, go ahead and frag him already.”

Smokescreen froze at the unexpected sound of a voice from the other side of the room. There were more than one in there with him? _What the..._ And then shock set in as he recognized the voice.

_Oh Primus, you've got to be kidding..._


	2. Chapter 2

”Aw great, now you've ruined the illusion” another voice said right next to him, and for all the heat in his systems Smokescreen suddenly went ice cold. He knew that voice too, had known it very intimately indeed a long time ago, and it belonged to a mech he had hoped never to meet again.  
  
”Swindle?” he asked incredulously, his voice riddled with static from the pent up charge in his systems.  
  
”You know, you used to call my name much more enthusiastically than that, Smokey” the Combaticon answered with what sounded like a smile on his lip components. “I haven't lost my touch, have I? Though, judging from you reactions before my idiot of a colleague opened his mouth I should say the answer is rather obvious.”  
  
“Since when... do you... team up with... Constructicons?” Smokescreen managed to ask, stalling for time while his processor tried to catch up with the situation.  
  
“Oh, that's only temporary,” Swindle said with a chuckle. “I needed an extra pair of hands to get you here and for certain reasons I couldn't ask my fellow Combaticons, so I made a deal with Longhaul here instead.”  
  
Smokescreen stopped himself before he asked what kind of a deal. He didn't want to know. He had experienced every side of Swindle's avaricious business dealings, including being an unwilling item in one transaction, and he knew the con mech would do literally anything for a profitable deal.   
  
Unfortunately, Swindle was feeling informative and soon elaborated on his statement. Bending down, he purred into one of his captive's audios: “And all I have to do in exchange is letting him watch while I 'face you senseless.”  
  
Smokescreen groaned in horror, disgust and mortification. As soon as he'd recognized his former lover's voice he knew he was in trouble, but _this..._  
  
“No...“ he hissed, trying furiously to regain control of his vocalizer. “Don't... want...”  
  
“Oh, but you do” the purring voice interrupted. “I know exactly how keyed up you are, and all that excess charge must be beginning to tear at your systems.” In order to prove his point he gently stroked a finger over the edge of one of the door wings and Smokescreen's sensory net, much against his will, once again exploded in pleasure. “You need the release and you want it.”  
  
Smokescreen couldn't deny the truth of those words, no matter how much he wanted to. His enthusiasm may have dropped to zero at the realization of exactly who the mech molesting him was, but that didn't mean the built up charge had dissipated.  
  
“So, do you _really_ want me to stop and walk away?” Swindle continued gleefully, still fingering the door wing, skilfully driving his victim to the edge of madness. They both knew that it wasn't really a choice – unless he got rid of the charge in his systems Smokescreen would soon be in horrific pain as his circuitry began to short out – but obviously Swindle couldn't resist the temptation of pretending to be playing fair.  
  
Feeling like dying from mortification Smokescreen finally shook his head.  
  
“What was that, Smokey, I didn't hear you. Shall I stop or go on?” the 'Con said, and even without being able to see him Smokescreen knew he was grinning lewdly.   
  
_Damn you, Swindle, do you have to rub in?_  
  
“Go on,” he reluctantly answered, spitting the words out as if they had a foul taste.  
  
Smokescreen shut his optics under the blindfold. This was so typical of Swindle, blackmailing his way to whatever he wanted, and doing it in the guise of an “honest” deal. He wished he could go offline and remain unconscious for the rest of the ordeal, but his self-preservation programming wouldn't allow it.  
  
“As you wish, my dear, I'm always happy to oblige” Swindle purred, the grin even more audible this time.  
  
 _You damned, slagging glitch, stop it, stop it, stop it!_ Smokescreen wanted to scream as the other renewed his exploration of his captive’s frame, skilled fingers tracing transformation seams, digging into gaps in the armour and teasing every sensor node they could find with maddeningly light, almost ghost-like touches. His processor was aching from the strain of conflicting messages and his entire frame was throbbing with electrical surges. Having been pushed so far, even his own overload would be painful now, but he knew it was at least the lesser of two evils.  
  
Swindle soon returned his attention to Smokescreen's nether regions, and the strapped down mech had to bite his lower lip not to moan – he didn't want to give the 'Con that satisfaction - as a hand began teasing his pressurized spike. Soon lips followed suite, though, then a glossa, and when Swindle took him fully in his mouth Smokescreen couldn't hold back a scream, crying out in lust, frustration, anger and humiliation. The cry quickly broke as his vocalizer gave out, leaving him temporarily mute as well as blind. In pure frustration he tried to kick at the other mech, but his legs were held tight by Swindle’s arms and he could hardly move them at all, let alone get any force into the movement.  
  
This was so _wrong_. The gentleness with which the other mech handled him somehow made it all so much worse to endure. This was rape, no two ways about it, and rape shouldn't feel like this. Harsh, brutal force, though admittedly much more painful, would have been easier to deal with emotionally than this mockery of tenderness, this apparent pretence that they were, in spite of everything, still loving partners.  
  
What really scared Smokescreen about this was that he had absolutely no way of reading Swindle, no way to assess or analyse and therefore no way to plan ahead how to counter. He didn't even know whether the 'Con thought of him as a lover, a temporarily reclaimed ex-lover or simply an enemy to be toyed with and used as he pleased.  
  
He wasn't completely sure which would be worse.

With one last playful swirl of his glossa Swindle pulled away from Smokescreen's throbbing spike and the Autobot shuddered involuntary as cold air replaced the warm mouth. For a few more moments nothing happened and Smokescreen began wondering if Swindle would make him beg yet again. Then he felt something probing the rim of his valve, and before he could even try to utter a sound of protest he felt the other mech's spike enter him, pushing all the way in to his most private depths.   
  
Thanks to all the previous teasing Smokescreen's valve was more than well lubricated and the swift penetration didn't cause any physical pain, but mentally the Autobot was hurting all the more. 

_No, no, no, NO! Primus, please, someone, stop this!_ he screamed in total silence as his sensitive valve was slowly stretched by the unwanted intrusion and the sensor nodes stimulated by the touch sent wave after wave of agonizing pleasure echoing through him.  
  
“Oh, you feel so good, Smokey!” Swindle moaned as he began thrusting into his reluctant partner. “Primus, I've missed this!”  
  
 _'This', not 'you'._ Smokescreen felt like purging. The feeling intensified further as he heard an excited, lusty moan from across the room and was reminded of the audience the mech on top of him had invited to witness his humiliation. For the second time the Autobot wished profoundly he could just go offline until this was all over.  
  
Swindle gradually increased the speed and force of his thrusts, his intakes venting air faster and faster, and Smokescreen knew his tormentor was getting close. His own systems were such a tangled mess of conflicting sensory input by now that he had no idea how close he was himself – his over-stressed sensory net couldn't even tell pain and pleasure apart anymore.  
  
Suddenly the pounding of his valve stopped and for a moment everything was as still as if time itself had stopped. Then Smokescreen felt the burning discharge as Swindle overloaded hard inside him. Sparks crackled between their frames and a wave of pure energy flushed through him, making his limbs twitch uncontrollably and straining every complaining circuit frighteningly close to breaking point. His lip components parted in yet another silent scream and Swindle caught them in a fierce kiss.  
  
The blackness of his vision was replaced by a deeper one as Smokescreen’s own overload finally flung him into blissful unconsciousness.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The time units used in this fic are:
> 
> Nano-klik = ~second  
> Klik = ~minute  
> Breem = ~8 minutes  
> Joor = ~hour  
> Orn = ~day  
> Vorn = 83 years

Smokescreen came back online with a strong and quite understandable feeling of déjà vu. He was still blindfolded, still unable to move and it was eerily quiet, the pinging of his own cooling frame being the only sound. He was fairly certain he was alone this time, but with his doorwings trapped against the berth he couldn’t use their sensors to make sure. Since his frame was still cooling from the massive discharge of his overload he couldn’t have been out for long, though, and he assumed his captor was somewhere in the vicinity.  
  
Trying hard not to focus on what had just happened or what more might yet be done to him, Smokescreen began running diagnostics to see how much damage his abused circuitry had taken and if there was anything that his automatic repair system wouldn’t be able to handle. His vocalizer was still out but would be back online within a breem or so, although not at full capacity. Some of his more delicate sensors and wiring had shorted out and would have to be replaced, but for the time being he could manage well enough without them. Apart from that nothing major seemed to have been seriously affected, although he felt sore and his joints were very stiff from being kept immobile.  
  
 _I wonder how long I’ve been gone,_ he thought to himself. Like most Cybertronians he had very poor sense of time with his chronometer disengaged and for all he knew he might just as well have been held captive for only a couple of joors as over an orn already. _Have the others noticed I’m missing? Is anyone even looking for me?_  
  
Smokescreen knew that most of the Autobots genuinely liked him and cared for him. He'd even had his fair share of relationships among them but he had never let any of them get really close. After his past experience with Swindle he had never dared to trust anyone that far, to really let them in. Unfortunately that also meant that of all the ‘bots on the Ark Prowl was the only one who knew about Smokescreen’s former involvement with the Combaticon con mech, and even he wasn’t likely to make that connection at once, unless there was some kind of indication in that direction. That had, after all, been half an eternity ago, and the manner in which Swindle had cut an end to the relationship hadn't exactly indicated that he might one day be interested in taking it up again. The fact that he apparently was was so illogical it would probably make Prowl crash once he found out. If he ever found out, that is...  
  
Suddenly Smokescreen was startled out of his musings by the sound of a door hissing open and someone entering the room. Judging from the gait he assumed it was Swindle again, which proved to be correct.  
  
“Ah, my sleeping beauty has returned to the land of the functioning,” the con mech said, accompanying his greeting with a light caress over the trapped Datsun’s chest. Smokescreen squirmed uncomfortably under the touch and tried unsuccessfully to wriggle away from it.   
  
_You fragger, stop that, I can’t take it, not again! Not you, not you!_ he wanted to protest, but he only managed a series of small clicking sounds.  
  
“Still mute, are we?” the sand-colored Combaticon said, sounding amused. “My, my, I must have blown your circuits quite thoroughly”.  
  
Smokescreen’s intakes vented air in an angry snort. He had so many reasons to hate this mech that had once betrayed and very nearly destroyed him. Back then he had delivered him over to pain, humiliation and suffering; now he had kidnapped and violated him, but still he kept talking as if none of those things had ever happened, as if they were still lovers and there were no grudges to be held.

Right then and there Smokescreen would have given vorns of his life to be free from his bonds, to be able to get up and rip Swindle’s spark out. Or at least to be able to look his tormentor in the optics and to tell him exactly what he thought of him. As it was, though, all he could do was to tug at the restraints and hiss blindly at his captor.  
  
“Actually, I only dropped by to say goodbye for a while,” Swindle said, finally removing his hands after one final caress of Smokescreen’s headlights. “I have some business to attend to and will have to leave you here for the time being. But don't you fret. You won't be alone for long, the others will be around shortly to keep you company.”  
  
Smokescreen's spark flickered in horror at the implications of those words, but his still healing vocalizer only managed a _hnnng_ in response. Swindle seemed to understand perfectly well anyway.  
  
“Oh come on, Smokey, you didn't really think I'd be able to keep you all to myself here, did you? The only reason I got Onslaught to approve this little scheme of mine was because I promised him and the others a piece of the cake.” He sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “Not a perfect solution, but I'd rather have you and share you than not have you at all. They probably won't be very gentle, though, so try and get some rest while you can, you might need it. And by the way, try not to antagonize Brawl too much, he's been in a foul mood for a couple of orns and that tends to make him somewhat savage.” The con mech chuckled as he began moving towards the door. “Well, more savage than usual, that is, and I really would prefer if you were still in one piece when I got back.”  
  
With that he left the room.  
  
This time Smokescreen didn't even hear the sound of the door since his processor was half way to stasis in shock. He couldn't believe he'd actually heard what he just heard. This mech, who had once been his lover, had just unrepentantly and seemingly unperturbed declared that he was handing him over to a bunch of brutes to be raped, and in the same sentence offered some friendly advice on how to deal with the matter! He hadn't thought his opinion of Swindle could sink any lower, but he realized he'd just been proven wrong. What was wrong with the mech? This strange mix of concern and total indifference was so sick Smokescreen couldn't even begin to understand the reasoning behind it. He wondered for the umpteenth time how it was possible that he'd once loved Swindle, and had thought himself loved in return. Was the con mech even capable of love, or was his built in greed too strong for anything else to ever compete?  
  
Someone back at the Ark had once made a joke of that, saying Swindle would probably sell his bondmate if he could make a decent profit from it. Very few knew that he had once actually done almost exactly that. True, Smokescreen and Swindle hadn't been bonded, but they _had_ been in a serious relationship for quite some time and Smokescreen had thought they would remain so, bonded or not. Therefore the betrayal had hit him so much worse.  
  
At first he'd thought it was all a weird joke or a horrible mistake of some kind. Soon enough, though, he'd soon been harshly informed that his lover had indeed actually sold him, just like that. The buyer had been a rich Towers' mech who had a thing for door-wingers and had been willing to pay an obscene amount of credits to have one as his personal slave. Smokescreen had never learned the exact amount, but apparently it had been enough to get Swindle more than interested. And since door-winged Cybertronians were comparatively rare since the fall of Praxus and Swindle hadn’t been likely to be able to get his hands on another one before someone else grabbed the offer, he had simply decided to put a rather abrupt end to their relationship, poured Smokescreen some drugs in his energon and then delivered him over to the customer like an ordinary piece of goods.

Smokescreen had always, of course, known that his partner was greedy, fairly unscrupulous and without any special regard for laws, rules and regulations. Sometimes that had bothered him, especially after spending time with Prowl, who was the exact opposite of Swindle, but he'd always managed to defend his partner's actions – in his own optics, at least - by the fact that business was tough and you sometimes had to fight dirty in order to survive. Turning someone you knew and presumably cared about over to slavery and treating him like a piece of non-sentient merchandise, however, was something he had never, ever thought Swindle capable of. The sheer cold-sparkedness of it was so different from what he'd thought he'd known about his lover that when realization that this wasn't just a deranged nightmare but cold, harsh reality had finally sunk in, the shock had almost sent him into stasis.  
  
Shocked and in despair though he'd been, Smokescreen had at least managed to summon enough will power to defy his “master”, refusing to do anything he was told. It had taken a few orns before the rich mech realized that he wouldn't be able to bend his new acquisition the way he had intended, and shortly afterwards Smokescreen had found himself fitted with an override chip, probably provided by Swindle as well, that had forced him to obey whatever command given to him by whoever handled the controller.  
  
He had never felt so low in his entire life, and if it hadn't been for the slave chip preventing it he'd probably have tried to deactivate himself rather than being handled like a mindless drone. He still felt sick whenever he thought of it.   
  
By the time his brother had finally found him and got him out of there he'd been a wreck, both physically and mentally. He still didn't fully understand what had kept him going after that, but he had recovered, slowly but steadily, until he was almost his old self again. But he had never forgotten or forgiven Swindle's betrayal and all he'd had to suffer because of it.  
  
And now that very same mech was destroying his life yet again, once again giving him up to pain and humiliation. Anger, hurt and frustration at his own helplessness seethed within Smokescreen, making him want to lash out.  
  
 _Why?_ he silently roared at the empty blackness surrounding him, encasing him. Once again he tugged at his bonds, knowing deep inside it was no use. _Why me? Why does this have to happen to me?”_  
  
Not really caring that he risked doing permanent damage to his vocalizer he finally let his feelings out in a loud, desperate cry.  
  
“Why? WHY!!!”  
  
The deafening silence offered no answer.


	4. Chapter 4

He desperately needed to recharge.  
  
He was exhausted, physically and emotionally, and on top of that he was running low on energon. He hadn't been refuelled at all since he was captured and he wasn't expecting to be, at least not as much as he needed, which made it even more important to save and recover what strength he could until an opportunity for escape presented itself.  
  
He really didn't like the idea of going offline in the middle of Combaticon HQ, but thinking about it he decided it couldn't possibly make his situation any worse right now. He had already established that he couldn't break free from his restraints, so until someone decided to let him loose he wasn't going anywhere anyway. But they couldn't keep him strapped down forever, could they?   
  
A small part of his processor argued unhelpfully that they sure could, but for the sake of his sanity he chose to ignore that.  
  
Satisfied with his analysis of the situation, if not with the situation itself, Smokescreen finally managed to get himself into an uneasy recharge.   
  
***  
  
He was jostled awake by the familiar and by now dreaded sound of the door hissing open and not one but two sets of steps entering. The heavier footfall indicated mechs considerably bigger and sturdier than Swindle, and Smokescreen had a nasty suspicion concerning their identities.  
  
“So, here he is, the mech that has gotten Swindle all worked up,” said a dry, condescending voice. Onslaught.   
  
“Indeed,” another voice answered. Blast Off. ”Well, whatever you might want to say against him, he does have good taste. This one looks delicious.”  
  
Smokescreen felt a finger tracing along the edge of his chevron and turned his head away as far as he possibly could in disgust. He hated the touch, hated the mech administering it and what said mech was undoubtedly planning to do to him.  
  
The hand moved on to the side of his face, touching the blindfold and for a split of a second Smokescreen thought and hoped it would finally be removed, but instead it was secured even tighter.  
  
“So, Swindle has taken a liking to sensory deprivation?” Onslaught said. “I think he's spent too much time around Vortex lately.”  
  
Smokescreen heard the other Combaticon laugh, a cold, cruel sound. “Well, I don't mind. The idea has possibilities.”  
  
 _Will you stop talking about me as if I wasn't here to hear you?_ Smokescreen protested inwardly.  
  
“You lousy fraggers, let me go!” he growled hoarsely as he once again felt hands roaming all over his frame.   
  
“Oh, he makes a sound,” Blast Off purred above him. “That's good, I was afraid you might be mute as well as blind. This wouldn't be half as fun if we couldn't hear you scream.”  
  
Smokescreen winced at that. He'd known all along that they would in all likelihood be rough with him, known they would hurt him, but Blast Off's remark told him beyond doubt that they were the kind of mechs that relished their partner's pain as much as their own pleasure. They wouldn't only take what they wanted and leave it at that, they would also be intentionally cruel about it.  
  
Somewhat to Smokescreen's surprise the two Combaticons began unstrapping him. He had no illusions as to the reason why, and for half a klik he entertained the notion of trying to throw his assailants off and make a dash for the door, but realized at once it wouldn't work. Even if he did manage to take them both by surprise (which, he admitted to himself, was highly unlikely), his movements would be too sluggish for close combat due to the stiffness of his joints. Furthermore, the two Combaticons were both larger and physically stronger than he was, so even under the best of circumstances he probably wouldn't stand a chance.   
  
That didn't mean he was going to surrender to them without a fight, though. This was the first time since his capture that he'd even had a chance to fight back, and he was going to take it, no matter the odds.  
  
As soon as his legs came free he immediately began kicking, wildly and blindly, and felt a grim satisfaction as he hit something with his right pede and heard a muttered curse from Onslaught. Surprisingly, though, there was no retribution, they merely continued unstrapping him. When his hands were released Smokescreen instantly went for the blindfold but unfortunately that move had been expected and his hands were caught before they could reach their target. Instead the Datsun felt himself being pulled off the berth and onto his pedes. For a moment it took all of Smokescreen's focus just not to fall over, his equilibrium being a bit off due to the lack of visual input and his legs stiff and decidedly unwilling to support his weight after being strapped down for such a long time.   
  
That moment cost him what small chance he'd had of fighting his assailants, as one of the 'Cons roughly twisted his arms up behind his back. Smokescreen couldn't hold back a yelp of pain as a pair of cuffs were tightly secured around his wrists.  
  
A kick to the back of his legs effectively got him onto his knees and moments later he felt one of them closing in from behind, pressing his chest plates against the pinned Autobot's back. Smokescreen could feel the vibrations of the other mech's engine, could hear the whirring of cooling fans and intakes working to keep level with the rising arousal of the 'Con behind him. He squirmed and twisted, trying to get free of the iron grip that held him prisoner in a mocking of an embrace, but to no avail. Large hands kept roaming all over the front of his frame and Smokescreen shuddered in revulsion and dismay when they finally reached his interface cover and forced it open.  
  
“No!” he protested, trying with all his might to get the panel to shut again. “No, stop! Stop, damn it, stop! Get your hands off me!”  
  
The mech behind him bent down and whispered smugly into his right audio:  
  
”Why don't you make us...”  
  
“Onslaught, you cowardly slagger, let me go and fight me like real GAAAAH!”  
  
For the second time that orn Smokescreen felt his valve being roughly invaded against his will. Unlike last time, though, his frame was completely unprepared for it this time, no lubrication fluids softening the friction against his sensor nodes, no overheated system secretly begging for release. To make it all even worse, the mech now entering him was considerably bigger than Swindle.   
  
It hurt like the pit.  
  
“NGAAAAH! Stop... stop it!” he panted, his valve burning with pain as the Combaticon leader behind him began pushing in deeper.  
  
“Frag, you're tight!” Onslaught hissed in Smokescreen's audio in between the thrusts. “Well... you won't be... hnnn... anymore... when we're... hnnn... done with you.”  
  
With one final thrust he pushed himself all the way in and Smokescreen couldn't hold back a scream as pure agony tore through him, making his head spin and his frame twitch uncontrollably. He tried to push the other mech away, tried to crawl out of reach, but the vicious Combaticon held him like a vice as he slowly pulled out and then slammed into his victim's aching valve yet again.  
  
“No... please... GAAAH!... stop... stop...”, Smokescreen protested, his resistance growing weaker and weaker as the overwhelming pain flooded him, threatening to drown him.  
  
Suddenly he felt something else pushing against his mouth and he automatically reacted by clenching his lips and denta together. For a while he managed to resist the prying, but then a particularly vicious thrust from Onslaught had him cry out once more and immediately he felt something being pushed it between the denta of his upper and lower jaw, wedging his mouth open.

_Oh no, please, someone help me, don't let them do this!_ his mind screamed as Onslaught shifted his grip, releasing the tight hold of his chest and grabbing him by the hips instead. Smokescreen's upper body immediately fell forwards, downwards. Before his face hit the floor, though, two terrifyingly strong hands grabbed hold of his helm, guided him slightly to the left and then slowly began lowering him again. Smokescreen felt his tanks churn as a large spike entered his mouth and he nearly panicked as the invasion went even deeper, pushing down his throat and completely gagging him.   
  
_No, stop, it hurts, stop, STOP!_ he wanted to scream, but the only sounds leaving him were muffled groans. With Blast Off's hands holding his helm tightly and the accursed wedge preventing him from biting there was absolutely nothing Smokescreen could do to defend himself. The thin, soft lining of his throat, not designed to handle anything but liquid, protested wildly at the intrusion, sending automated messages to his tanks to initiate purging. Having no way of complying to those commands, his throat being blocked, Smokescreen was left with a nauseating feeling mixing with the discomfort and pain in his throat.  
  
For quite some time the Combaticon shuttle simply held him there, apparently basking in the feeling of his helpless victim's feeble resistance combined with the rocking from Onslaught's pounding of the Autobot's valve. After a while Smokescreen began seeing stars and wondered briefly if the mech intended to suffocate him, but then the shuttle finally allowed him to lift his helm a bit, letting him gulp a few panting intakes of air. The respite was short, however, as Blast Off soon pulled his helm back towards him, forcing Smokescreen to swallow the large spike yet again. The vicious mech moaned in pleasure as he set a brutal pace that was slightly out of synch with Onslaught's, making sure to add what discomfort he could to his victim's already agonizing experience.  
  
***  
  
Smokescreen had no notion of how long the two Combaticons kept ravishing him. Caught helplessly between his tormentors time soon ceased to exist, leaving him swirling in a hazy, semi-unconscious mist of pain and humiliation.   
  
Blast Off was the first to overload. Once again held down with the Combaticon's length buried deep down his throat Smokescreen had no choice but to swallow the transfluid that burst from the throbbing spike and burned against the sore lining of his throat. Once the shuttle was satisfied he swiftly pulled out and let go of Smokescreen's helm. With his hands bound behind his back the Autobot had no way of breaking the fall and his face hit the floor with a painful _clang_. The abused mech hardly noticed this latest addition to his world of pain. As soon as Blast Off had pulled out he'd begun retching violently, and now his tanks purged the transfluid he'd been forced to swallow, along with what little energon he’d still had left.  
  
Onslaught reached his peak shortly afterwards. Increasing the speed and force of his already brutal pounding he finally released his load deep within the whimpering Autobot with a triumphant growl. All Smokescreen could do was to keen wordlessly as another wave of excruciating pain burst through him. When the Combaticon leader at long last pulled out and let go of him, Smokescreen instantly collapsed on the floor.  
  
And that's how they left him, nearly unconscious, lying face down on the floor, his arms still cuffed behind him, his legs spread apart with transfluid seeping out of his battered valve and his face in a puddle of his own spilled energon.


	5. Chapter 5

Smokescreen reluctantly returned to full consciousness and a currently very unfriendly world. Part of him had wanted so bad to go over that tempting edge, to plunge into the darkness and escape the excruciating sensation in his throat and abdomen, but once again his self-preservation programming had stopped him from going there of his own accord.   
  
_Slagging protocols, I'll have them deactivated first thing if… when I get a chance,_ he thought, exhaustedly frustrated.   
  
Trying to focus his processor on something more useful than drowning in his own misery he ran a quick system check. His energy levels were dangerously low, as he'd already known, and since he had purged during the last rape he had nothing to boost them with. The delicate lining of his throat had torn in at least three places, exposing bare circuitry, which meant he wouldn't be able to consume any energon until the damage was repaired. He also noticed that something had apparently dented his interface cover since it refused to close when he sent the command. Being thus exposed made him feel even more vulnerable.  
  
He had to do something. Just lying there passively merely had his processor focusing on the hopelessness of his situation and his tactical computer running worst case scenarios, which was _not_ helping.  
  
He began by trying to move his arms, testing the strength of the mag-cuffs. He could feel they were set on a high level, one he probably would have trouble breaking even at full strength. In his weakened state he didn't stand a chance. He gave up on the attempt and instead focused on the wedge that still kept his mouth wide open in a very uncomfortable way. This time he was in better luck. After some coaxing with his glossa he managed to dislodge the wedge and spit it out. It wasn't much of a victory, but it was something.  
  
After a while he made an attempt to move his legs and winced as new surges of pain shot through him. He bit them down with a groan and twisted his frame to lie as much on his side as his door wings would allow. Curling his legs as close to his chest as he possibly could he braced himself and tried to heave himself up onto his knees. It wasn't easy with his hands firmly locked together behind his back and it took quite a few attempts but finally he made it.   
  
Once there he had to sit motionless for several kliks to allow the waves of pain to settle down before he could even think of moving again. He really had nowhere to go, but lying prostrate on the floor had made him feel exactly how exposed and vulnerable he currently was, and anything that offered the slightest illusion of safety and control was highly welcomed. If he could at least manage to crawl into a corner he'd have his back covered, if nothing else.  
  
He had no idea what kind of a room he was in or how big it might be, but at least he now had the use of his doorwing sensors. Not all of them were still online, but enough remained to help him finding his way about. Since he didn't think he would be able to keep his balance if he got up to his pedes he remained on his knees as he slowly turned full circle, using every kind of scanning available to him.  
  
Within a breem he had a fairly good mental picture of the room. It was square shaped and fairly small, about the same size as his own quarters back at the Ark. The berth at the wall to his left seemed to be the only piece of furniture apart from something square in one corner that Smokescreen suspected was a cupboard or something like that.  
  
He started towards one of the corners but then changed directions towards the berth. He really wanted to get as far away as possible from that berth and all it represented, but maybe he could use the edges of the berth to get his blindfold off. He had already tried scraping his head to the floor to get rid of the thing, but the surfaces were too smooth, he needed something steady with a sharp angle to press against.  
  
He reached his target fairly quickly, but after only a few attempts he realised it was useless. Apparently the blindfold was secured by some kind of locking mechanism and he couldn't lift it even a little.  
  
With a frustrated sigh he gave in and staggered for the nearest corner. Once there he gratefully leaned against the wall for support. The short distance he had covered had all but exhausted him, the lack of fuel and decent recharge taking its toll. He let his head sink down towards his chest. He felt so weak, so drained, and for a moment he wondered what would happen if he fell into stasis lock. Would the 'Cons just keep violating him anyway? Would they repair and refuel him until he recovered enough for them to start all over again? Would they deactivate him for good? _Probably not_ , he thought bitterly. Swindle had seemed intent on keeping him around, even though he obviously didn’t care one iota how he fared during his stay.  
  
Either way, the odds of him making it out of here were not great.   
  
For a moment he almost let despair get the better of him. The ghosts of his past were beginning to return as well, slipping through walls he’d thought and hoped to be impenetrable.  
  
 _Prowl, Blue..._ he thought longingly, summoning pictures of his brother and adopted brother from his data banks. _Please tell me you're looking for me. Please find me soon or I’m not sure there'll be anything left to find._  
  
Then he heard it again, the sound that he knew would follow him his in nightmares for the rest of his life: The hissing of the door.  
  
Using the wall behind him for support he pushed himself to his pedes. He hardly had the energy to stay upright, let alone to fight, but there was still enough defiance in him to refuse to give himself up without some token of resistance.  
  
He heard someone stomp into the room, coming straight towards him, and steeled himself for what was to come.  
  
The first blow hit him square in the chest and threw him straight back into the wall. It was immediately followed by a series of punches to his helm and face and when Smokescreen tried to turn away to avoid being hit his legs suddenly gave and he sank to his knees. His attacker didn't let that stop him. He kicked the collapsed Datsun hard in the back, then lifted him back to his pedes, grabbed his left door wing and hurled him across the room by it. Even before he hit the wall Smokescreen felt a searing pain in his back as the door wing was dislocated from the strain. Then he crashed helm first into the wall. Once again he sunk down to the floor, and this time he couldn't get back up. No matter how hard he tried, his limbs refused to obey him.

Through the haze of pain Smokescreen could hear the other mech step closer, bend down and growl into his audio, thus confirming the identity Smokescreen had already guessed at: Brawl.  
  
“I promised your little brother that I'd make you pay when he shot me. It's time to settle the score.”  
  
With that he turned the supine Autobot over on his front, spread his legs and settled down between them. Smokescreen heard the tell-tale sound of an interface cover clicking open and grid his dentae, preparing himself as best he could to suffer through yet another agonizing rape.  
  
He didn't even have the energy to protest anymore. His vocaliser had shut down, along with several other non-vital systems, in order to keep his core systems going. He was already running on reserve power and when that was completely drained he would go into stasis.  
  
It was with a mixture of immense relief and tank-churning horror that the Datsun suddenly realised he didn't feel any pain as he _heard_ the other mech's spike being slammed into his battered valve. Did not, in fact, feel anything at all.   
  
From the entire lower part of his frame.  
  
 _Something must have been ruptured during the beating,_ he thought worriedly. _What if the neural connections in my back strut are damaged?_   
  
He knew that that kind of damage was tricky to repair, even for a highly skilled medic, and it was not unheard of that the damage proved to be irreparable. Smokescreen couldn't even begin to imagine what it must be like to be permanently unable to walk, maybe even unable to transform and move around in vehicle mode. He didn't think he would be able to live with that.  
  
He was abruptly pulled out of his troubled ponderings and back to the harsh reality when Brawl, apparently annoyed with the lack of resistance or any manifestation of the pain his victim should undoubtedly be in, suddenly grabbed his door wings. The rough hands were squeezing hard enough to leave dents in the sensitive panels, and that Smokescreen _did_ feel. He gave a soundless scream in agony as his enemy obviously used the door wings for leverage when he began pounding the Autobot's valve in earnest.  
  
It was a very strange experience. He knew from the sounds and the way his upper body rocked violently back and forth that what Brawl did to him should hurt like Pit and probably did some serious damage to his valve, but he felt nothing, absolutely nothing, from his mid-torso and downwards.   
  
Unfortunately, the iron grip on his door wings more than compensated for the sudden lack of pain in the lower part of his frame. Since the left one was also dislocated every tug at it sent sharp needles of agony right into his processor, making it impossible to even think.  
  
Suddenly the rocking ceased and somewhere in his tormented processor Smokescreen realised he had just had another load of transfluid released within him. He was barely coherent enough to care anymore.  
  
Then he heard the Combaticon growl into his audio again.  
  
“And here's something to remember me by, Autoscum!”  
  
He proceeded to grab Smokescreen's right and hitherto comparatively unharmed door wing and started twisting it. The Autobot was too weak to do anything but tremble as the Combaticon slowly, deliberately twisted his door wing further and further.   
  
At a little over 90 degrees the hinge snapped and a violent spasm went through the prone Autobot. At 180 the wiring began to tear.  
  
Right before 270 degrees the door wing broke off completely. Smokescreen's back arched in one final agonizing convulsion and then his systems finally gave in to the strain.  
  
He went into stasis. 

***  
  
Bluestreak had gone looking for Prowl right after the battle. None of them had been badly wounded but quite a few others had and the tactician wasn't in his best mood when the young gunner came to see him. As always, he felt responsible when 'bots got hurt because he'd failed to predict the actions of the enemy. The fact that he after three days still had no trace of his missing brother didn't do anything to lighten his mood, but as SIC he couldn't let personal feelings impair his ability to perform his duties.  
  
“Yes Bluestreak, what is it?” he asked, for once letting some of his temper shine through in his voice. Apart from his closest family, meaning Jazz, Bluestreak and Smokescreen, he never allowed anyone to see that emotional side of him.  
  
Blue understood the situation well enough not to feel offended by Prowl's irritation. Though not really related to him, Prowl and Smokescreen had always been his elder brothers and Bluestreak had been worrying himself sick for these past few days. Not to mention how guilty he felt because he'd been the last to see his adopted brother before he disappeared. Maybe, if he hadn't left him alone in favour of returning to the stupid party, Smokescreen wouldn't have gone missing. And now when he had a nagging suspicion of just who were responsible for the disappearance he felt even worse.  
  
“Prowl... I think the Combaticons may have Smokescreen.”  
  
All irritation left the SIC immediately and he focused sharply on Bluestreak.  
  
“What leads you to make that assumption?” he asked the young gunner.  
  
“Something Brawl said during the battle. You remember when he was charging towards Bumblebee and Ironhide and I managed to take his guns out?  
  
“Yes. That was an excellent shot, by the way.”  
  
“Thanks,” Bluestreak said, his face plates heating somewhat. Praise from Prowl was rare. “Well, as I was repositioning to cover Ratchet I had to pass fairly close to Brawl. He stared right at me and growled at me that my brother was going to pay for my humiliating him. At first I thought he was going for you, so I kept a close eye on him and the other Combaticons for the rest of the battle. However, none of them paid you any special attention at any time, so I realised maybe he wasn't referring to you at all, but to Smokey. But if they've got him I don't understand why we haven't heard anything, the 'Cons usually gloat about any prisoners they take. Why would they keep quiet now? It doesn't make sense.”  
  
As soon as he heard Bluestreak's story Prowl could all too easily imagine what must have happened. The 'Cons’ actions made perfect sense to him and he cursed himself twice over for not thinking about that possibility earlier.  
  
“Yes Blue, it does make sense,” he said, his voice icy. “If what you guessed and what I suspect is true, the Combaticons have kept quiet about their prisoner for a very specific reason.”  
  
Bluestreak waited for an explanation but none came. He was just about to ask when Prowl looked him in the optics and the younger Datsun was quite shocked to see burning anger in the usually stony countenance of his brother and CO.  
  
“I'm sorry, Bluestreak, I cannot tell you anything more for the time being. Will you please leave now, there's someone I have to talk to.”  
  
The gunner just nodded his understanding and left without another word. As soon as the door closed behind him, Prowl activated his comlink.  
  
“Prowl to Jazz, acknowledge”  
  
The answer came immediately.  
  
“Ah'm ‘ere an’ all audios, love.”  
  
Despite the gravity of the situation, Prowl couldn't quite stop a tiny smile from grazing his lip components at his mate's less than formal way of answering.  
  
 _Incorrigible mech!_  
  
“I need you to come to my office at once. Bring Mirage. I have a mission for you two.”


	6. Chapter 6

As always, coming out of stasis was a slow process. The very first thing he was aware of, even before his processor was lucid enough to formulate words, was a sense of relief. A klik or so later he caught the reason: He wasn’t in pain.   
  
As his somatic senses came online he waited for a sudden rush from any of the areas he knew had been damaged, but to his amazement it never came. Instead he felt the slight, dull ache of recent repairs.  
  
 _Someone’s repaired me?_ was his first coherent thought. As soon as enough systems were online he ran an all-frame scanning to have it confirmed, and yes, apart from his right door wing which was still missing everything seemed to be in comparatively good order. Even his legs - _Thank Primus!_ \- were okay, meaning the damage to his back strut hadn’t been so bad after all. He'd also been refuelled and his energy levels were if not good then at least reasonable.  
  
While waiting for his audios and optics to boot up he hesitantly tried to move, fearing to discover that he was strapped down again, but to his immense relief and great joy there was nothing but his own stiffness to impair his mobility. His hands instantly went up to his face – the blindfold was gone, too! Could this possibly mean…  
  
Slowly, carefully he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the berth. He tried to remain calm, tried not to hope that his ordeal was indeed over. He made a sensor sweep of his surroundings but with only one door wing he got nothing but gibberish in return. He'd simply have to sit back and wait until the boot up sequence finally reached 100%. It shouldn’t take long, anyway.  
  
An “all systems online” blinked on his HUD and he eagerly activated his optics.  
  
Not really surprised but still bitterly disappointed he concluded that although he didn't recognise the room he was in, he could tell for sure that it was not a part of the Ark, which left little doubt as to the fact that he was still a prisoner.  
  
Venting a dejected gush of air he rose from the berth but instantly overbalanced and fell. He had never before been without one of his door wing and therefore never realised how dependant he actually was on them, not only as an extra pair of optics and audios but for such a simple thing as keeping his equilibrium. He felt like a youngling having to adjust to a recently upgraded frame.  
  
Using the berth for support he got back onto his pedes and spent the next breem trying to re-learn how to walk. It wasn't easy and he swayed like an overcharged seeker but after a while he at least managed to stay on his pedes.   
  
Question was: what to do now? He knew it probably wouldn't take long until he had another visit from his captors, and considering that four of the Combaticons had already... had their way with him there was little doubt as to who the next visitor would be. And he really, really didn't want to be subjected to _his_ mercy.  
  
The very next moment Smokescreen found himself reminded of the human expression “speak of the devil...” as the door slid open and Vortex entered the room.

Not really thinking ahead the Datsun charged against the Combaticon interrogator, hoping maybe to catch him off guard and take him down for long enough to make good his escape.  
  
Not surprisingly, though, such an act had apparently been expected. Vortex merely raised an arm and shot something at the Autobot, who immediately fell limp to the floor.  
  
“Now that's not a very nice way to welcome a visitor,” the Combaticon said for a greeting, visor glimmering at the Autobot on the floor who fought furiously to get back up on his pedes. “You should be grateful I was prepared for something like that or I might have blasted you to pieces.”  
  
“Gratitude isn't the first thing that springs to my mind,” Smokescreen snarled, still trying to convince his limbs to obey him, with precious little success. “What have you done to me?”  
  
“Oh, this?” Vortex said, bending down and removed a small black object from the struggling Datsun's chest. “This is a very useful little contraption that suspends most cable tension in your frame, leaving you unable to move without impairing your sense of touch. It was originally designed for medical purposes, but I often find it quite useful in my own profession. Oh, you don't have to worry, the effect will wear off soon enough, but not until I'm done with my preparations.”  
  
Smokescreen groaned in frustration at the infuriating feeling of helplessness as his arms were manoeuvred into positions above his head and his wrists once again were cuffed. He heard the rattling of a chain too but couldn't see exactly what was done with it since it was currently outside his field of vision. A shudder ran through him as the Combaticon copter touched one of the welding scars on his arm.  
  
“You know, it took me almost nine joors to restore you to function after my my team mates'... activities,” the visored mech said casually.  
  
Smokescreen blinked in surprise. _Vortex_ had repaired him?  
  
“And you expect me to believe you did it out of concern for my well-being, with no ulterior motives?” he said icily. “Go frag yourself.”  
  
Vortex chuckled, and Smokescreen was certain there was a smirk hidden behind the grey mech's battle mask.  
  
“Ooh, some temper! I like that. Was afraid the others might have already broken you, that'd be no fun at all.”  
  
He bent closer and extended one of his hands to stroke the edge of the paralysed Datsun's yellow chevron.   
  
“I'm sure you're aware of the fact that I like breaking things,” the Combaticon continued. “But you can't really break something that's already broken, now can you?”  
  
He pinched one tip of the chevron hard and was rewarded by a small yelp of pain.   
  
“Hnng! So you put me back together only to be able to take me apart again?” Smokescreen hissed angrily and actually managed to tear his head away from the interrogator's hands, proving that the immobilising effect was indeed beginning to wear off. “You sick, over-clocked, sadistic psychopath!”  
  
This time Vortex actually laughed.  
  
“Nice try, but flattery doesn't work on me.” He proceeded to fastening a metal bar between his prisoner's pedes, thus locking him in a full spread-eagle, and then stood up, critically scrutinizing his work while the supine Autobot began squirming, fighting against paralysis and restraints.  
  
Apparently satisfied the Combaticon sent a command to the pulley system control unit and the chains began to retract, dragging Smokescreen along upwards. The Autobot soon found himself hanging with no contact to the floor, his entire weight resting on his wrists and shoulders. It was decidedly uncomfortable.

When his prisoner's face was in height with his own Vortex stopped the winch, locked it in position and circled once around his suspended prey, eyeing him appreciatively.  
  
“You look really delicious like this, you know,” he said, a hint of excitement in his voice.  
  
Smokescreen grid his dentae and shuddered as the Combaticon let one hand trace a line from his neck down to the small of his back and then up again. After shadowing past the hinge of the one remaining door wing the caress went on to cover the rest of his dorsal plating, exploring the nearly invisible transformation seams and stroking any cables that could be reached though the gaps in his armour. The touch was light and gentle, stimulating Smokescreen's sensory net, and he would even have found it pleasant but for the knowledge of just who the mech administering it was.  
  
Then suddenly his back exploded in pain as the visored mech without any kind of warning drew an energy whip from subspace and let it hail down six times in rapid succession, leaving blackened marks on the suspended Autobot's back.  
  
Smokescreen howled, the pain registering threefold due to the previous teasing. Another salvo of eight lashes had him thrashing in his bonds. Then, unexpectedly, those gentle fingers were there again, and the tormented Datsun felt his sore plating literally cringe under the touch. He felt something tickle down his back and realised that at least one of the strokes had pierced his armour and drawn energon. A groan of pain and revulsion escaped his vocaliser as Vortex, having at some point retracted his battle mask, let his glossa trace the seeping beads of energon back to their source, eagerly exploring the wound with his mouth while his hands were busy caressing Smokescreen's waist and abdomen.  
  
“Twisted... defective...” the Autobot hissed at his tormentor, having serious trouble focusing his processor enough to form any coherent words.  
  
“Are you trying to flatter me again?” the Combaticon whispered into his audio before he shifted his attention to his captive's remaining door wing. “I told you, doesn't work on me.” He gave one of the edges a nibble and Smokescreen tried in vain to get his sensitive appendage out of his enemy's reach.  
  
“Please... not... doorwing...”  
  
“Oh, but that would be a shame, wouldn't it?” Vortex circled around until he was once again face to face with his victim, though never letting go of the door wing. “I'm told they are quite sensitive, just like rotor blades, but I've actually never had a doorwinger before so I wouldn't know.” He gave the Datsun a predatory grin. “I do look forward to finding out, though.”  
  
He pulled another object from subspace and it took Smokescreen a few nano-kliks to recognise it for what it was: an electric shock prod. The Combaticon activated it and with deliberate slowness began moving it towards the trembling door wing.  
  
***  
  
Prowl found Bluestreak sitting on a rock just outside the entrance of the Ark, just as he had been since the moment Jazz and Mirage left. The younger Datsun, usually hyperactive and constantly chattering, had been remarkably subdued ever since Smokescreen’s disappearance and Prowl knew it wasn’t only out of worry for his brother. The altruistic young gunner, always quick to self-reproach, was still blaming himself for not being there when Smokescreen was taken. It didn’t help how many times he was told it was none of his fault, he wouldn’t be able to rid himself of the feelings of guilt until the Datsun trio was complete again, all safe and sound.

Prowl wished he could believe his brother would indeed be returned to them fully functioning, but his battle computer had already given him the odds for that and they were practically non-existent. The question was rather how badly damaged he would be, physically and mentally, and if said damage would be repairable. Smokescreen had been a hair’s breadth from complete insanity after his captivity in the Towers and it had taken vorns for him to completely recover. Being put in much the same situation once again, courtesy of the same mech was bound to affect him badly.  
  
Eyeing Bluestreak Prowl noticed the younger mech kept twitching his door wings nervously, probably using every sensor he had to scan the area for signs of someone approaching, anxiety written all over him. Prowl felt very much the same but had a great deal more experience in keeping his emotions in check, and only a very observant ‘bot would be able to notice the slight tension in his posture and the rigidity of his highly held door wings.  
  
Right now, though, no one was watching and the Autobot SIC allowed himself a tired sigh before he went over to his young brother.  
  
“Blue…” he said mildly, “how long have you been sitting on that rock?”  
  
“Six joors, 5 breems and 3,6 kliks,” the gunner answered without hesitation.  
  
“You do realise that your sitting here will do nothing to hasten their return? They may well be away for yet another orn, possibly longer.”  
  
“I know, Prowl, it’s just… I’m so worried about Smokey I can’t really focus on anything else. Ever since that skirmish I keep hearing Brawl’s words over and over in my mind. He wouldn’t be above beating up a prisoner just for the fun of it, and if I provoked him…” Bluestreak’s voice hitched a little. “Every time I shut my optics I just hear those words and see Smokey lying broken in a growing pool of energon. What if… What if they…”  
  
He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.  
  
“No,” Prowl said, correctly guessing the words the young mech failed to utter. “No, they won’t kill him.”  
  
“How can you be so sure of that?”  
  
Prowl hesitated for a moment. Smokescreen had never told Blue of his dark past, not wanting anyone but Prowl to know, but soon enough that story would have to be told to a few other ‘bots anyway – Optimus, for one, and in all probability Ratchet as well – and the youngling had an equal right to know and understand.  
  
“Because I know why they took him.”  
  
Bluestreak turned around sharply and stared Prowl straight in the optics. The older Datsun gave another sigh and allowed his door wings to drop just a little. Reaching out an arm he grabbed his young brother by the wrist and pulled him to his pedes.  
  
“Come with me to my office. It’s a long story and I don’t want anyone else to hear it just yet.”


	7. Chapter 7

_Why can’t he just take me and get it over with?_  
  
Smokescreen’s entire frame was throbbing with pain. Vortex had methodically treated nearly every inch of his outer plating with either whip lashes or electric shocks, skilfully keeping him conscious throughout the entire ordeal. The stinging and burning sensation was bad enough on its own, but seeing how revved the interrogator was by the pain he inflicted - rotors spinning in excitement, visor glimmering and now and then a lustful moan when the Autobot screamed or flinched in a particular way - was positively sickening.  
  
Once bored with whip and prod the interrogator had produced a collection of sharp-toothed clamps that he put to use on whatever exposed neural circuitry he could find. Smokescreen had thought himself beyond the ability to register new pain by then, but had been woefully proven wrong. The studied slowness with which the sadistic 'copter proceeded always left his system just enough time to deal with one level of pain before inflicting another, thus continually increasing the threshold.   
  
It was more than pain that made Smokescreen tremble, however, when one of the Combaticon's hands finally sneaked its way down his hip and came resting on his as yet undamaged interface cover.  
  
“No... please...” was all the exhausted Datsun managed.  
  
“Relax,” the visored mech purred as he pressed closer. “I have no intention of using you the way the others did, if that's what you fear. I don't share their base inclinations.”  
  
Smokescreen gave his tormentor a venomous and thoroughly sceptical look.   
  
Vortex chuckled.  
  
“Just because I'm a sadist doesn't mean I'm a liar.”  
  
“Great… comfort...” the Datsun retorted through clenched dentae, trying to ignore his burning frame and the screaming of his wrists and shoulders as his tormentor put one arm around him, adding further weight to the already badly strained joints.  
  
Vortex nibbled one of the Autobot’s neck cables, then let his glossa play over the bared circuitry below his prisoner’s chin, making the suspended mech shudder in disgust. “Good,” he breathed, slowly pulling away and grinning wickedly. “Because you are about to need all the comfort you can get.”  
  
Suddenly the interrogator dug his fingers under the edge of Smokescreen’s interface cover, ripped it off and shoved the electric prod into the exposed valve.  
  
Smokescreen screamed. Repairs notwithstanding, his valve was still sore from all the abuse he’d taken and the sharp edges of the prod tore at its sensitive walls like claws.  
  
“Ooooh, I'll bet that hurts, doesn't it?” the copter whispered, grinning excitedly at the tormented expression on the Datsun’s face plates. “Well, how about this?”  
  
He pushed the button to activate the prod.   
  
Shock after shock of electric current slammed through Smokescreen's internals, sending his entire frame into convulsions. He screamed again, screamed and thrashed as the shock waves spread through his frame, igniting his entire sensory net with white-hot flames of pure agony.  
  
Vortex moaned in pleasure at the sight.  
  
When he finally removed the prod Smokescreen hang completely limp in his chains, most of his motor relays destroyed either by the electricity surges themselves or by the violent spasms they had triggered.   
  
“You scream so beautifully, my lovely mech,” the interrogator said softly into the inert Autobot's audio. He grabbed his victim by the chin and caught the unconscious mech's lips in a deep, thorough kiss.

***  
  
“Well?”  
  
“He’s there, no doubt about it. They mentioned him by name.”  
  
Jazz simply nodded, relieved that they had located their missing friend but at the same time reluctant to think of what shape they would find him in after four orns with the most ruthless and vile mechs of the whole Decepticon army, and one of them with a special interest in him, at that.  
  
Jazz knew Prowl had only told them half a story when he briefed them for their mission, but his bond mate had silently pleaded for him not to ask more right then and he had obliged. He couldn’t help wondering, though...   
  
But all such speculations would have to wait – now he had a job to do.  
  
“So, how’s security?” he asked his still invisible companion.  
  
“Tight, but not impenetrable,” Mirage answered. “I’ve spotted a sensor-blind corridor of approach; it should get you there easily enough. The trickiest part is getting down into the ravine since there’s nothing to cover you from being visually spotted on your way down.”  
  
“Not a problem. I’ll use ma grapplin’ hook for a lifeline and jump down. Should be back in cover within three or four nano-kliks.”  
  
“Good. Once inside, it’s pretty much the usual deal – cameras, code-locks, regular sensor sweeps et cetera.”  
  
“Figured as much. Any indication where he might be?”  
  
“Not really. There’s probably a brig somewhere, but judging from what Prowl told us Smokescreen’s just as likely to be tucked away in somebody’s personal quarters. We’ll simply have to search our way through. Part of the facility is located underground and I had only scouted the upper areas when I overheard that conversation. Do you want me to go a more thorough round before we go in sharp? It’s probably not the best place to go half-cocked.”  
  
“No, we’re both goin’ in this time. Don’t wanna leave Smokey in ‘ere for one nano-klik longer than necessary and two search faster than one. How many of the ‘Cons did ya spot, by the way?”  
  
“Only Onslaught and Blast Off, but the others might very well be there too.”  
  
“Well, considerin’ there’s only five of ‘em and the base is pretty large it shouldn’t be too hard to avoid a crowd.”  
  
Jazz heaved a deep vent and sent off a little prayer for good luck to whatever deity might be inclined to listen.  
  
 _“Alright, ready?”_ he sent over their heavily encrypted ops comm link and immediately got an _‘affirmative’_ in return. _“Then let’s get goin’.”_  
  
***  
  
Smokescreen couldn’t for the life of him understand why his self-preservation programming insisted on dragging him back from a world of blissful oblivion into a world of helpless suffering. His overtaxed sensory net locked up most of his processor capacity anyway, making it hard for him to even think coherently. But did it really matter anymore? When life and sanity meant only humiliation and torment, wasn’t there a better alternative?  
  
He was very close to surrendering to complete apathy when a new sensation somehow made it through to his awareness. Cold. Something was cold. Pursuing the odd impression brought back some lucidity and he finally managed to pinpoint it.  
  
Now, that was odd. He couldn’t possibly feel cold _there_ , not unless…  
  
Not unless…  
  
The shock realisation brought with it finally returned Smokescreen to full consciousness, and he realised with tank-churning horror that his chest plates had been forced open and that Vortex at this very moment was manipulating the clamps that locked his spark chamber.  
  
He must have emitted some kind of sound, or maybe a shudder, because the Combaticon stopped what he was doing and looked Smokescreen right in the optics, red visor glimmering and with a diabolical smile on his thin, cruel lip components.  
  
Smokescreen felt a tidal wave of panic crushing in over him.  
  
 _No, he can't... he can't possibly intend to..._  
  
“No!” he screamed on the top of his vocaliser. “No!”

Suddenly oblivious of his aching frame he fought with every bit of strength he could muster to lift his legs and kick the intruder away.  
  
He barely managed a quiver.  
  
“I see you figured out where this is going,” the interrogator smirked, delighting in his victim’s obvious distress.  
  
“No… you can't... you can't!” The mech couldn't possibly be planning to merge sparks with him! One little mistake during the merge and they could end up bonded, for Primus' sake!  
  
“Yes, I can.” Vortex grinned maliciously and snapped two of the locking clamps open. Smokescreen wasn't quite sure if it really hurt or if his mind simply conjured up pain impulses from the sheer _wrongness_ of the touch.  
  
“Silly Autobot...” the interrogator continued, shaking his head in amusement. “You didn't think this is the first time I do this, did you?”  
  
He released the next two clamps. Smokescreen fought desperately to get them to shut again, but too many relays and connections had been severed for the command to even reach the right circuitry.  
  
“You've probably never even spark merged, have you?”  
  
Of course he hadn't. It wasn't like regular interfacing after all, something you could do with anyone you liked just for the pleasure of it. Spark merging was the ultimate intimacy, the ultimate act of trust you could place in another being. It was something unique, something that you – if at all - did with one and one bot only in your entire life.  
  
With deliberate slowness Vortex undid the last lock and opened Smokescreen's spark chamber. White light with a faint streak of greenish blue suddenly flooded the Combaticon's frame.  
  
“Beautiful,” the grey mech whispered, letting his hands ghost over the crystalline shell of the Autobot's lifelight, not quite touching but almost.  
  
Smokescreen was beyond panic, frame trembling and intakes hyper-venting. He had never exposed his spark for any living being, not for his brothers or any of his lovers, not even for Swindle back in the old days, although he had loved and trusted him. Even his slave master in the Towers had not gone as far as to demand that.   
  
“You cannot imagine this feeling, Autobot,” Vortex continued, his voice a strange mix of condescension, lust and awe as his fingers kept almost-petting the glowing spark. “To be literally holding someone's life in your hand, to have the power to extinguish his entire existence with the tiniest flick of your wrist.”  
  
For half a moment Smokescreen's non too coherent processor wished fervently for those hands to actually seize his spark and rip it out, thus ending his torment once and for all.  
  
With a lustful sigh the Combaticon withdrew his hands. Turning his gaze to his prisoner's face he gleefully noted that the mech was well on his way into shock. Time to move on, then.   
  
He retraced his own chest armour and spark casing cover.  
  
Not wanting the image of his enemy’s very core imprinted on his memory banks Smokescreen tried to turn away, but Vortex was having none of it. He grabbed the Autobot by the chevron and twisted his head back, forcing him to look right into his exposed spark.   
  
Smokescreen stared as if hypnotised at the deep purple aura that danced around the star-shaped core of Vortex’s spark. Thin trails of something resembling a dark mist were already reaching out towards his own uncovered spark, apparently eagerly anticipating the merge. The realisation that he would soon have the energy of that twisted spark forced upon him, invading his innermost being, frightened Smokescreen like nothing ever had.

“It's entirely up to you how this ends,” the Combaticon breathed into his left audio, voice thick and hoarse. “Either you let me in, let me take what I want without fighting, and no lasting harm will be done to you. Or you resist and face the risk of initiating a bonding. I don't care either way, my gestalt link can override and repel any individual connections I'm subjected to. You, on the other hand, would be stuck with my spark signature on your firewalls, preventing you from ever forming a bond of your own.”  
  
He took a moment to fully savour the flash of understanding and desperation in the Autobot's optics. So very close now...  
  
Smokescreen's last ounce of processor capacity raced, screaming denial at the horrible, impossible 'either... or' that had been placed before him. This could not be happening. This _could not_ be happening!  
  
It was a choice in words only. And he couldn’t live with either alternative.  
  
They had taken everything from him: his freedom, his friends and family, his dignity. They had used and abused his frame for their own twisted pleasures. And now even his last resort, his spark, was to be reduced to nothing more than a toy in the hands of his enemies.  
  
He had nothing left to fight for.  
  
Vortex saw the clear azure of the Autobots optics suddenly flicker and fade to a blue-greyish twilight, heard racing systems beginning to power down to life supporting only, and knew he had won. Spirit finally broken, this one wouldn't fight any more.  
  
Lips curling into a lustful grin of anticipation, the Combaticon caught the Autobot’s blank face in his hands and sealed his victory by claiming those defenceless lips in yet another ferocious kiss.   
  
Then he pressed their chests firmly together.


	8. Chapter 8

Getting inside the base had proven to be fairly easy, just as Mirage had anticipated. Most of the early alert and defence systems of the Combaticon HQ where aimed at aerial assailants, not grounders, which was rather ironic considering the rate of fliers among the Autobots in comparison to the Decepticons. Regarding how the Combaticon's previous collaboration with Megatron had landed them discorporated in a detention cell Jazz couldn't really blame them, though, and it made the first part of his and Mirage's job much easier. The tricky part was remaining as invisible once inside.  
  
Of course, the invisibility part wasn't really a problem for Mirage, who at once set out for the command centre he'd spotted earlier. He had a fairly good mental picture of the layout of the base, but a detailed plan wouldn't hurt and maybe if he was lucky he could even find some indication of Smokescreen's location.  
  
As he got closer Mirage could hear an agitated voice coming from the room that was his destination, and muttered an oath. He wouldn't be able to access the computer while the work station was manned. He couldn't even enter since the 'con inside would be more than suspicious if doors suddenly started opening and closing of their own accord. Fortunately he could at least hear the voice – voices, he realised - clearly enough, so he decided to stay and eavesdrop. Possibly the argument could provide him with some of the information he wanted, so he settled against the wall to the left of the closed door and listened closely.  
  
“What the Pit were you thinking?”  
  
“About what?”  
  
“Damn it, Vortex, you know very well what I'm talking about. My Autobot. You went too far!”  
  
Mirage cursed under his breath. That was bad news indeed. If even Vortex's own team mate thought he'd gone too far it must be very, very bad.  
  
“Oh come on, Swindle, you know my preferences. You didn't expect me to hold back just because he's your old pet, did you? Besides, I don't recall you putting up any conditions for access, only that you wanted him alive and functioning when you got back. Well, he is alive and can be restored to function – more or less – so I don't see what all the fuss is about.” There was a scornful snort. “Face it, you're just jealous because I went where you don't dare go yourself.”  
  
“Me, jealous of you? Go frag yourself!”  
  
Vortex laughed, in amusement this time.  
  
“So you _are_ jealous. All right, all right. I'll patch up your little frag toy as soon as I'm off duty, happy?  
  
“You'd better!”  
  
“And then you'll cuddle up with him and be aaaaall gentle comfort and concern, right?” the copter said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Man, Swindle, I'd never have thought you to be such a softie.”  
  
Mirage heard rapid steps on the other side of the door and suddenly Swindle stormed out of the command centre spitting indignant curses while his fellow Combaticon's laughter rang after him.  
  
Mirage remained where he was, trembling with withheld fury. He wasn't sure which made him angrier, Vortex's obvious lack of remorse for whatever damage he had caused Smokescreen or the fact that Swindle's first reaction at finding his former lover ill-used had been to scold the perpetrator instead of doing something about the damage himself. And Vortex's use of the term 'frag toy' left little doubt as to the nature of the damage.  
  
It took all the self-control the invisible Ligier could muster not to run after Swindle or step through the door and throw himself at the Combaticon interrogator. Mirage had seldom felt such a strong urge to kill – no, not to kill, to hurt and maim - a living being, but he knew that even if he managed to take one of them down here and now the rest of the Combaticons would soon be aware of the fact that they had visitors, making it very much harder for him and Jazz to get Smokescreen out of there. He had to let them go for now.  
  
 _But some day you are going to pay._  
  
He left his post by the door to continue his search.  
  
***

Jazz had searched more than half of his allotted area when he finally picked up a promising reading on his sensors. He'd gone from door to door, carefully scanning each room for signs of life. Twice he'd come across Decepticon signatures and once he'd almost collided with an agitated Swindle in a corridor, only barely escaping discovery. He had felt sorely tempted to pounce on the mech or treat him to a laser shot right in the processor, but held himself back for the same reason Mirage had.  
  
The signal was weak, but definitely of Autobot origin. Tracing it to one of the anonymous doors Jazz scanned the locking mechanism and found to his surprise that the door was neither locked nor had an activated alarm. That was never a good sign, since it meant whoever was inside was totally and utterly incapable of escaping on his own.  
  
Steeling himself for what would in all probability be an unpleasant sight he opened the door.   
  
Jazz had seen his fair share of horrifying things in his life, but that didn't make it any easier to stumble upon the tortured body of a close friend. He took a few slow, deep intakes to calm his churning tanks.  
  
 _Oh Primus..._ He hurried to his brother-in-law's side. “Smokescreen? Smokey, can ya hear me?”  
  
He hoped fervently that the mech was in stasis or getting him free and out of there would be torture in itself.  
  
Smokescreen was hanging in the middle of the room facing away from the door, head slumped forward. Chains connected to the ceiling pulled his arms upwards and apart, locking them in a V-shape, and Jazz knew from personal experience exactly what that position did to your wrists and shoulders. Dislocated joints were hardly the mech's most serious problem, though. Nearly half of this armour plating was missing, and most of what was left was badly scorched or cracked. There was a small puddle of energon on the floor beneath him and some of the larger wounds were still leaking, as was his valve. The one remaining door wing was mangled almost beyond recognition and generously fitted with torture clamps. Having been bonded to a Praxian for quite some time Jazz was very much aware of how extremely sensitive those wings were, even more so than his own sensor horns and the mere thought of one of those clamps _there..._  
  
Circling to check the Datsun’s face for any sign of consciousness Jazz stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the open chest plates, the breached spark chamber and the faint light flickering from it.  
  
No, it wasn't possible. Surely not even the Combaticons...  
  
But the flickering light left little doubt. Jazz might not have been a medic, but he knew spark damage when he saw it.  
  
While searching for the control mechanism to the chain set he activated his comm link on the encrypted ops channel.   
  
“Mirage, ya'd better hurry. Ah've found him and we've got a problem.”  
  
“On my way, where are you?”  
  
“Sector HS3, southern corridor, third door on the left.”  
  
“I'll be there in a klik. What's the problem?”  
  
“The fraggers have torn his chest open. Don't know exactly what they did, but there's obvious spark damage.”  
  
There was a moment's silence.  
  
“Oh slag. But he's alive?  
  
“Barely, but yeah. Ah'm tryin' ta get him out of his chains, but we gotta be real careful how we handle him, one too sharp move and we might risk disconnectin' somethin' vital.”  
  
“Right. Have you called in Skyfire for extraction?”  
  
“No, not yet, can't estimate a reliable time frame until we've got Smokey free and stabilised enough to be moved. But he does know we've successfully infiltrated the base, so he's on standby and can reach us within 1.3 kliks.”  
  
“Good. I've just about reached your corridor, so please don't shoot me when I open the door.”

Jazz didn't bother to answer that. Having finally gotten the controls to the pulley system online he slowly lowered the Datsun's mutilated frame to the floor and lay him down on his back as gently as he could. The sight of the once handsome mech's face, now disfigured by burns and a deep gash running diagonally from forehead to chin and scraping one optic made Jazz seethe with rage. He could on some level accept if not condone the fact that prisoners were sometimes tortured for information, as a part of interrogation. At least then it was for the sake of a higher albeit misguided cause. He had himself done morally questionable things once or twice during the war to achieve a greater good, though never stooping that low. That kind of torture was also usually conditional, meaning the victim had the possibility to choose to give in to the demands in order to stop the torment. It was more often than not a horrible alternative, but at least it _was_ an alternative.  
  
This was obviously not the case when it came to Smokescreen. Not being a very high-ranking mech he had little information that would be of any value to the Decepticons, and if that had been what they were after they'd probably have tried to take advantage of his relationship to the Autobot SIC instead. No, this was on a completely different level. This wasn't torture as the means to an end, this was damage inflicted as a display of power by someone for whom the pain and suffering of his victim was an end in itself, fuelling some twisted desire.  
  
That kind of victim never had any alternatives. Unless he was rescued the only relief he could ever hope for was death or insanity.  
  
They had arrived in time to prevent death, or so Jazz thought and hoped, but as for insanity....  
  
He resolutely pushed that particular thought aside and focused of the task at hand.  
  
When Mirage entered the saboteur had already produced a med kit from subspace and was busy taping the broken chest armour shut. The Ligier stared incredulously at the mangled shape on the floor for a nano-klik, taking in the extensive damage, then he quickly got down to his knees and began picking the locks of the mag cuffs.  
  
“Primus, what a mess! And you say there's spark damage on top of all this?” he said quietly, shaking his head while his skilled hands got first one of Smokescreen's wrists, then the other free from the chains. He proceeded to the spreader bar, trying without much success to shut out the tell-tale image of his friend's energon-stained thighs and valve. “So that's what he meant by 'going too far'. I knew I should have killed that damned copter when I had the chance,” he hissed between clenched dentae. “I'm going to have to remedy that.”  
  
“Hey, priority is gettin’ Smokey out of here and into Ratchet's care. We don't have time for a retribution crusade.” Done with the chest Jazz had begun removing all the torture clamps from the Datsun's neural lines, and no matter what he'd said to Mirage he had to admit harbouring a healthy helping of disgust himself towards the mech who put them there. “Not that Ah don't agree with ya, but now's not the time.”  
  
They kept working in silence for the next couple of kliks. Once done with the restraints Mirage began helping his CO patching up the wounds. With the extent of the damage there wasn't too much they could do except stopping the worst leaks and make sure the spark wasn't further contaminated, but they had to make sure their patient was as stable as possible before they dared moving him.

Finally Jazz sat back with a frustrated exvent. They had done all that could possibly be done under the circumstances, now they could only pray it would be enough to get Smokey safely back to Ratchet's medbay in one piece.  
  
 _So, now for the fun part..._  
  
“All right,” he said to Mirage, “Ah'll carry him, ya scout ahead.”   
  
With that he carefully lifted the limp Datsun bridal style and began moving towards the door. “Ping me if ya meet someone, I'll let ya know if we can find some place to hide or if ya have to take him out.”  
  
Mirage nodded once, activated his disruptor field and literally disappeared through the door.  
  
 _Here we go..._ Jazz braced himself and opened another heavily encrypted comm line.  
  
“Skyfire, objective completed, stand by for extraction. Final request due within a breem.”  
  
Without waiting for an answer he followed his invisible fellow spy out of the room.


	9. Chapter 9

"Prowl, this is Skyfire. Extraction successful, I’ve got them, repeat: I’ve got them!”  
  
“Prowl here, Skyfire. You have all three of them?”  
  
“Affirmative.”  
  
The Autobot SIC vented a small but sparkfelt sigh of relief. _Thank Primus!_  
  
He knew he probably didn’t want to hear the answer of his next question but proceeded to ask anyway.  
  
“Is everybody all right?”  
  
There was only the slightest of hesitation in the jet’s answer, but Prowl caught it nonetheless. Bad news, then.  
  
“You’d better talk to Jazz, sir.”  
  
With an uneasy feeling the tactician quickly changed frequencies.  
  
“Jazz, this is Prowl. Status report?”  
  
“Hi, love,” the saboteur replied, and Prowl instantly registered the dejected tone in his bondmate’s voice. “Well, we got 'im out and he’s alive, but that’s about it. He’s not a pretty sight right now.”  
  
“How bad?”  
  
“Just 'bout as bad as it can be. But we shouldn’t be discussin' this on an open line. We’ll be back in four breems or so, just make sure Ratch’ has the medbay ready. And clear the corridors between the entrance and the medbay, Ah don’t think we want the rest of the crew to see this.”  
  
Prowl had to force himself not to inquire further. If Jazz was this reticent there was bound to be a good reason. Instead he maintained his official Second in Command tone.  
  
“Very well, I’ll see to it. How about you and Mirage?”  
  
“’Raj took a hit in the shoulder right before Skyfire got us out, but otherwise we’re fine.”  
  
“Good. I'll brief Optimus and Ratchet. And Jazz...”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
With that he cut the connection and made for the medbay. On his way there he opened his comm link again.  
  
“Prime?”  
  
Optimus had apparently been expecting his call and answered immediately.  
  
“Yes, Prowl?  
  
“I need you to come down to medbay, sir. Jazz and Mirage are on their way back with Smokescreen and I have some information on this matter that I need to share with you and Ratchet before they arrive.”  
  
“I'm relieved to hear that they found him,” the Autobot leader said. “It was the Combaticons?”  
  
“It was.”  
  
There was a moment of silence, and Prowl had the feeling that his CO was debating with himself whether or not to ask about the diversionary tactician's condition. If so he apparently decided against it.  
  
“I'll see you in the medbay in two kliks.”  
  
”Thank you, sir” Prowl replied and cut the connection. He did not look forward to the upcoming meeting. Technically, both Optimus and Ratchet should have been informed about Smokescreen's past long ago, but Smokescreen had been adamant about it and Prowl hadn't had the spark to order him into a confession. It was the one and only time Prowl had himself intentionally bent the regulations he was otherwise so very strict in upholding, and though he wasn't exactly proud of it he didn't regret his decision either.  
  
But now the cat was out of the bag, to use a human expression, and the truth had to be told.  
  
With lips pressed into a thin line of determination Prowl entered the medbay.  
  
***  
  
Prowl had barely had time to finish his story before Skyfire alerted them to his imminent arrival. After hustling the unconscious Smokesreen to the medbay, swept in thermo blankets - as much to protect his frame from possible further harm as from prying eyes – Ratchet had unceremoniously thrown everyone but First Aid out of the medbay, after ordering Mirage to see Wheeljack about his shoulder wound. Prime had immediately let the rest of the base know that Smokescreen was back, though his condition was grave and the medbay was off limits until further notice. Prowl had himself debriefed the two black ops 'bots about their mission and then shut himself inside his office.  
  
It took 6 joors before anything at all was heard from the medbay, and the short message wasn't very encouraging once it came – merely a “stabilized for the time being,” which really meant nothing more than that Smokescreen was still alive.   
  
Another 5 joors passed before Ratchet finally left the medbay and made his way to Prime's office for report.

Optimus looked with concern at his friend and chief medic as the latter sank down in one of his visitor's chairs with obvious signs of exhaustion. He knew, however, that Ratchet wasn't likely to appreciate any worry on his part when a patient's life was at stake, so he held back the impulse to ask the medic how he was feeling.  
  
“So, how is Smokescreen?” he inquired instead.  
  
Ratchet gave his CO a tired glance.  
  
“I'm not sure you want to know.”  
  
“You're probably right, but I need to know anyway.”  
  
“Fair enough,” the medic said, leaning back in his chair and shutting his optics for a moment. “He's in deep stasis. We have him hooked up to every kind of life-supporting equipment available, which is probably the only reason he's still alive. In fact it's nothing short of a miracle that he even survived the transport. But most of his core systems, though very weak, are stable at the moment, although they won't be able to support him unaided for some time yet.”  
  
Optimus only nodded.  
  
“98% of his outer armour is destroyed and roughly 40% of the sub-dermal plating with it. His entire sensor net is basically one big short circuit and will take a near complete rewiring. Both door wings have to be rebuilt from scratch. Most of his joints were dislocated and the left knee has been crushed, resulting in severe strut damage of the entire leg. One optic is destroyed, possibly beyond repair, though I'll do my best. Furthermore he sports typical rape damage in his valve and in his throat.”  
  
The Autobot leader stiffened a little at that.  
  
“You mean he was raped, too?”  
  
“At least twice, probably more. There have been some repairs made at some point before the major parts of the wounds were inflicted, and since these mechs hardly care about the comfort of their victim it suggests that the damage was severe enough to render him useless to them unless repairs were made.”  
  
Optimus shook his head in dismay, wondering how someone could sink so low.  
  
“Yes, I know how you feel,” the medic said drily. “Unfortunately, that's not the end of it. His spark has been damaged as well.”  
  
Hearing that, Optimus was grateful none of the Combaticons was within reach right then, or he felt he would for sure have done something thoroughly unbecoming of an Autobot in general and a Prime in particular.  
  
“I see,” he said instead, the clenching of his fist the only thing that betrayed his anger. “How bad is it?  
  
Ratchet hesitated. “I'm not sure. I've never seen this particular reaction before, so I have to proceed with caution. Spark damage is very tricky to deal with and if I don't tread carefully I may end up doing more harm than good.”  
  
”I have full confidence in your skills, old friend,” Optimus said with an encouraging smile in his voice. ”If anyone can pull Smokescreen though this, it's you. Keep me posted on how things develop and I'll make sure Prowl and Bluestreak are duly informed without you having to have them hovering outside your medbay.”  
  
“That would be much appreciated.”   
  
Ratchet got up from his chair and prepared to leave. He was in desperate need of some recharge before he could return to piecing his patient's frame together again.  
  
“It's the very least I can do,” Optimus answered as he too rose. “And please let me know if there's anything else you need.”  
  
“I will. Good night, Prime.”  
  
“Good night, my friend.”  
  
With that the medic left the office. Optimus let his optics stare into nothingness for a klik while he let the information from Ratchet's report filter through his processor one more time before preparing a brief report of his own to send to Prowl. He knew his SIC was in recharge at the moment – Jazz had more or less carried the tactician from his office about a joor earlier – and Primus knew the 'bot needed his rest, but he'd probably want to know about his brother's condition as soon as he came back online. Even though the tactician had hidden it well, Optimus knew that Prowl had been very worried about Smokescreen, which was more than understandable considering the background story he had told them earlier that orn. And as usual his way of dealing with emotional stress had been to bury himself in work. Small wonder fatigue had finally caught up with him now that some of the tension had been released by Smokescreen's rescue.

Optimus could only hope and pray that that sense of relief wasn't premature.  
  
***  
  
Ratchet was worried. It had been twelve orns since Smokescreen was brought back and all the damage to his frame had been meticulously repaired, but he still had not regained consciousness and his spark hadn't stopped flickering in that strange pattern.   
  
The main problem was that spark damage wasn't something you could simply repair like the rest of the frame; it had to be done from the inside by the patient's own repair system. Once the rest of the frame had been taken care of, Smokescreen's self-repair should have been able to focus completely on healing his spark, but for some reason that wasn't happening. Ratchet for once had no idea as to the reason why, and that irked him. He had never seen anything like this during his whole long life as a medic.   
  
He needed to know exactly what had caused the damage in the first place. And with Smokescreen offline there was only one way to extract that information, however unpleasant it was.  
  
He turned to face the mech occupying the visitor's chair in his office and braced himself.  
  
“There's nothing more I can do, as things stand. We'll have to access his memory files to see exactly what happened. This is a very invasive act, and not one I suggest gladly, but if I don't find a way to treat him soon he'll die.”  
  
Being used to the medic's bluntness Prowl didn't take offence by the suggestion, though it surprised him. Accessing another bot's databanks without his or her express approval was normally considered a very serious offence, and even when it had to be done for medical reasons it was frowned upon.  
  
“It's really that bad?” he asked the medic, though he already knew the answer. Ratchet would never even have mentioned it unless he had already tried everything else.  
  
“Unfortunately, yes.”  
  
“And I take it you'll want my approval, since I'm his closest kin?”  
  
“Not only that,”Rathcet replied sombrely. “I would like to ask you to consider performing the scan yourself.”  
  
Prowl's door wings stiffened a little at that, but his voice remained calm.  
  
“Why so?”  
  
Ratchet noticed the slight change in posture and sighed inwardly. He really wished they didn't have to do this.  
  
“While I could technically do it myself it would probably be better for Smokescreen if you did it,” he began explaining. “You already know more of his secrets than anyone else and he's less likely to resent you for finding out things he probably wouldn't want anyone to know. When you access a bot's memory files you not only see what he experienced, you'll also feel an echo of his feelings at the time. Considering what Smokescreen went through, judging by his injuries, those memories won't be pleasant, and most mechs are very reluctant to let anyone share such knowledge. All I need to know is what caused the spark damage, but in order to find that event all the files have to be scanned and this is where you could act as a filter. He trusts you more than he trusts anyone, you got him out of the Pit once before, and if anyone has to know the full extent of his ordeal I'm sure he'd rather have it be you than me.”   
  
Ratchet looked Prowl straight in the optics.  
  
“Normally I wouldn't even consider asking a non-medic, and certainly not one who is so close to the patient, to go through such a thing, but in this case the circumstances are somewhat special given his history. Furthermore, you have an advantage to most 'bots in this case: you could perform the scan through your battle computer, thus obtaining the information without feeling the full emotional blow. There will of course be a backlash once you return to standard operational mode, but it won't be fully as bad as if you'd had to absorb everything at once.”  
  
He gave the SIC another thoughtful look.  
  
“I know I'm asking a lot of you, Prowl, and if you think I'm wrong just tell me so and I'll perform the scan myself.”  
  
Prowl didn't even have to think about it.  
  
“No, you're right. I won't pretend that the idea doesn't bother me, but I'll do it. For his sake.”

“You're certain?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Very well, that's settled then.” Ratchet replied. “How much of all this mess does Jazz know?”  
  
“Everything you know, give or take a few details. Why?”  
  
“Because you are going to need some support when you come out of this. If Jazz already knows it'll be easier for him to help you cope.”  
  
“I understand. When do you want to run the scan?”  
  
“As soon as you feel ready for it.”  
  
***  
  
Jazz couldn't take his optics from Prowl. The tactician was sitting next to Smokescreen's berth in the ICU, holding one of his brother's hands in a firm grip and with his own data transfer cable connected to the medical port in the unconscious mech's neck. His face was determined but otherwise expressionless, a sure sign he was running his battle computer at full capacity.  
  
“How's this gonna affect 'im, doc?”  
  
The question snatched Ratchet from his own thoughts on the exact same topic.  
  
“Difficult to say. In the long run it depends on what he finds in there, and if it'll be enough to get Smokescreen stabilized.”  
  
“An' in the short run?”  
  
The CMO let his gaze shift from the two Praxians to the black and white mech beside him.  
  
“I know you've had to both experience and witness torture, Jazz,” he finally said. “Have you ever been forced to witness rape?”  
  
Jazz simply nodded.  
  
“With the victim being someone you cared about?  
  
Clenching his dentae the saboteur nodded again. It had been an eternity ago, but that kind of experience wasn't easily forgotten.  
  
“Then you know what Prowl is going through right now.”  
  
Jazz's gaze finally left his bond mate's stony expression and met Ratchet's optics with a frosty stare.  
  
“Ya knew that's what he was gonna see, an' still ya had 'im do it?”  
  
Normally, Ratchet would have been offended by such an implication that he didn't give proper consideration to a patient's well-being, brusque bedside manners or not, but as he had said to Prowl earlier, this case threw all kinds of “normally” right out the window.  
  
“Yes, that part I knew,” he replied calmly, “and so did Prowl. He did not go in blindly, Jazz. He knew it would be hard, but he also knew that we desperately need to learn what caused that fluctuation in Smokescreen's spark energy. Once I know that I may be able to strengthen his self-repair system and point it in the right direction, but until then...  
  
He was interrupted by a strange, strangled noise from Prowl. The tactician had suddenly gone from still to frozen, door wings held unnaturally high and his currently unseeing optics many shades brighter than usual. His intakes hitched twice before he seemed to relax marginally again and kept scanning.  
  
Jazz gave Ratchet a worried look.  
  
“Was that...?”  
  
“Probably,” the medic answered, not needing to ask what the saboteur was referring to.  
  
When Prowl finally disconnected half a klik later his optics were almost white and he swayed a bit when he got to his pedes. Jazz was there in an instant to steady him, and Prowl was infinitely grateful for his presence. Not in his wildest, most horrible recharge fluxes could he have imagined what he had just seen done to his brother. Even with his battle computer engaged and his emotional centre repressed to a minimum he felt himself on the brink of collapse, tanks churning violently.  
  
“This is the memory segment you need,” he said in a hollow voice, disconnecting a data chip from his wrist port and handing it to Ratchet. “Now I want you to temporarily disable my transformation cog and declare me off-duty for the next orns, or until you see me fit to return. And you, Jazz, please take care of these.”  
  
“What?” Jazz asked in astonishment as Prowl unsubspaced his weapons and handed them to him.  
  
“I want to be certain you can prevent anything I might try to do when I disengage my battle computer. If I can't transform I can't outrun you and I won't be able to handle you in hand to hand combat if I'm unarmed. And for the record, until I'm cleared for duty again you are authorised to take whatever action necessary to keep me from leaving the Ark, no matter what I say or do during that time.”

Jazz simply kept staring at his bond mate, and if the situation hadn't been so obviously serious Ratchet would have laughed at the shell-shocked expression in the saboteur's face. It was not often the special ops mech looked so totally confused. To the medic Prowl's requests made perfect sense. Although he didn't yet know exactly what the tactician had seen in his younger brother's mind, Ratchet knew from experience that sharing someone's memories of torture and rape was not an easy thing, and a strong urge for revenge was far from an unusual reaction.  
  
He did what Prowl asked for without any questions.  
  
Once the cog was disabled the two black and whites made their way for their quarters, one leaning heavily on the other, leaving Ratchet with a pondering look on his face. He admittedly hadn't expected quite so strong a reaction from the tactician, and he could only hope Jazz would indeed be able to help his bondmate through it all.  
  
He vented a gust of air and turned back towards his patient, picking up the data chip with the memory files Prowl had extracted for him. It was time for some answers.   
  
Two kliks later Ratchet himself had to lean heavily against his desk to stay on his pedes and fight to keep the contents of his fuel tanks inside him.  
  
 _It's not possible,_ he kept telling himself. _It's not possible! How could he..._  
  
Then the next realisation struck.  
  
 _And I had Prowl witness THAT! Oh, Primus, I have to warn Jazz!_  
  
Activating his comm he pinged the saboteur's frequency.  
  
“Jazz, this is Ratchet, acknowledge! Jazz? Jazz! Damn it, mech, answer!  
  
There was no reply.  
  
“Oh, frag frag frag frag FRAG!” the medic spat as he left the medbay running.


	10. Chapter 10

Ratchet was halfway to Prowl’s and Jazz’s quarters when he received a comm, and he was only marginally relieved to see that it was from Jazz.

 “Sorry, Ratch,” the saboteur began, “Ah kinda had my hands full. Uh… have, actually. Would ya mind comin’ over here and bring a sedative? Ah have Prowler pinned down right now but he’s screamin’ and fightin’ like the Pit and Ah can’t even reach him over the bond.”

 Slag. Just as Ratchet had feared.

 “I’m already on my way, Jazz,” the medic replied, ignoring the strange looks he got from some of his fellow Autobots as he barreled along the corridor. “I’ll be there in a few moments.”

 The sight that met him upon arrival was somewhere between absurdly comical and very disconcerting.

 Prowl was lying face down on the floor, arms firmly pinned behind him by Jazz’s strong grip. He was struggling like a landed fish, legs kicking and doorwings flailing erratically as he fought to dislodge the weight of the saboteur sitting on his back.

 “Let go of me!” the tactician howled in an outburst the likes of which Ratchet had never seen from the normally very quiet and controlled mech. “I’m going to kill them, he needs to pay!”

 Not letting surprise get the better of him the CMO quickly approached and pressed a stun pad against the raving mech’s arm. The device discharged a mild EMP burst that wasn’t strong enough to cause damage but did knock a bot offline for a couple of kliks, enough for a proper sedative to be safely administered into his lines.

 The Praxian slumped as the surge hit his systems and suddenly it was eerily quiet.

 “What the frag was that?” Jazz finally asked as he released his grip on the now limp arms of his bondmate and got up. He sported quite a few sizable dents and his visor had been smashed, a testament if any to just how fiercely Prowl had fought. “Ah’ve never, ever seen him lose it like that. Mech, ya told meh it could get bad, but _this_?”

 “I’m sorry, Jazz,” Ratchet said as he carefully helped said mech lift the unmoving Praxian onto the berth, then opened the small auxiliary hatch in Prowl’s lower chest and injected a dose of medical grade energon mixed with certain additives that would keep the tactician calm – well, calmer at least – when he came back online. “I misjudged the gravity of the situation. Had I known what he’d seen I wouldn’t have let him out of the medbay. Frag, I wouldn’t even have let him go through with the procedure if I had even  _suspected_ something of the kind.”

 “Ah’m really not in the mood for riddles right now, doc,” the saboteur replied, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “It’s obvious Prowler’s gonna need mah help, so Ah have ta know what we’re up against.”

 “He didn’t tell you?” the CMO asked, avoiding the indirect question. His medic’s oath didn’t allow him to discuss Smokescreen’s condition with Jazz, at least not without Prowl’s express approval, and yet he couldn’t deny that there was truth in the saboteur’s words.

 “There was no time,” Jazz answered, turning his gaze to his unconscious bondmate with a concerned look on his face. “The moment we entered our quarters he just started thrashing around and screamnin’. The only thing Ah could make out was that he wanted ta kill somebody, which Ah had kinda figured out already. That was about as coherent as he got. And he's blocked the bond completely.”

 “Trust me, Jazz, he has reasons. I can’t tell you exactly what happened, not unless Prowl gives me permission, but… well, you saw Smokescreen’s wounds first hand, and I can tell you the damage was worse than it looked.”

 Jazz raised an optic ridge.

 “Given he was torn to pieces and barely alive when we found him Ah can’t really imagine how it could be worse, unless-“

 He was interrupted by a groan from Prowl and instantly returned his focus to his slowly onlining bondmate.

 “Prowler? Can ya hear meh?”

 “Hnnh… processor… hurts,” came in a whisper from the other black and white. “What happened?”

 “Well, ya… kinda lost it for a while. Ratch had ta put ya under.”

 Prowl onlined his optics and looked questioningly at the two mechs leaning over him.

 “Why would I…” And then his memory returned, making him keen in a mixture of anger, sorrow and frustration. “Smokescreen!”

 He tried to get up from the berth, but the chemicals Ratchet had sneaked into his system made him too sluggish to manage. His vents were increasing in speed, though, and there was something wild in his optics.

 “Easy, Prowl,” the medic urged. “Your systems are only working at half speed right now so you may feel a little strange, but it had to be done to keep you from crashing completely.”

 Ratchet grew silent for a moment while he checked the Praxian’s systems for any lingering effects of the shocks.

 “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “You should never have had to see that and I’m sorry I didn’t make the connection before.”

 Prowl turned his helm and looked Ratchet in the optics.

 “Vortex is going to pay for this… with his life,” he said, voice still little more than a whisper but with an air of absolute finality.

 The medic merely nodded, knowing arguing would have been pointless. Not that he was of a different opinion. As an Autobot and a medic his main principle was that all life was worth preserving, but even he could accept that there were some things that were unforgivable.

 Turning back towards his bondmate Prowl frowned when he saw the remains of the broken visor and the paint scruffs and dents in Jazz’s armour.

 “I hurt you.”

 Jazz put up a faint smile.

 “It’s alright, love, Ah know ya didn’t mean ta. But Ah’d really like ta know what the pit is goin’ on here.”

 Prowl offlined his optics and visibly slumped against the padding of the berth with a pained expression on his face.

 “Tell him,” he said, words obviously directed at Ratchet.

 The CMO heaved a sigh and turned to Jazz, who was watching him expectantly.

 “Vortex… forced a spark merge with Smokescreen. An instant, full merge.”

 Both black and whites stiffened at the words, one from the horrible memory images they brought forth and the other out of shocked incredulity.

 “Primus,” Jazz groaned after a moment of silence, sweeping his hand over his face. The thought of even touching sparks in a nonconsensual manner was mindboggling on its own, but a full merge, without prior priming in the form of multiple careful, shallower merges to bring the sparks into synch, was just inconceivable. Not only should such a deep and sudden contact of two sparks in dissonance be extremely painful, the risk of destabilization on one or both parts would be enormous. And if by some chance the sparks were successfully merged anyway, that would leave a connection that could never be broken. “Are ya tellin' me that Smokey’s been _force-bonded_ to that fragger?”

 “I don’t know yet,” Ratchet replied, suddenly feeling very tired. “Vortex seems to have been confident that the merge wouldn’t forge a permanent bond, or I doubt even one as glitched as he would have dared it, but I need to examine Smokescreen’s spark and the relevant sets of coding more closely to be able to tell for sure. I’ve never heard of a case like this, or even of a gestalt mech merging with anyone outside his team, so I don’t have much to go on at the moment. I mean, I know the mechanics of merging but the very idea of someone doing it without consent and the mutual intention of forming a bond is just… ” His voice faded and he shook his helm, returning to scanning Prowl’s systems.

Jazz nodded, processor whirling as he tried to push back his disgust at the whole thing and think of it from a purely academic angle, but he had to admit that it wasn’t an easy concept to grasp. He agreed with Ratchet’s opinion that this merge had probably not been intended to create a bond, but that led immediately to the question of what the intention actually _had_ been. While he was familiar with the psychology of rape he found it nigh impossible to apply to spark merging. With a forced interface the aggressor got a physical and, more often than not, some kind of emotional stimulation from the act, no matter how the victim reacted.

Spark merges, on the other hand, gave no real physical stimuli, being an entirely spiritual act. They were by definition all about balance and equality since the two sparks for a short period of time actually fused into one. They could be immensely pleasurable, sure, but it was nothing like the wild physical pleasure of interfacing. It was like comparing a roaring fire to a steadily glowing coal, both generating heat but still completely different in nature. The appeal of merging lay in the feeling of absolute oneness with the one you loved, of warm affection, trust and devotion shared. If either of the partners felt emotional distress of any kind it would bleed into the merge and affect them both equally. In a loving relationship that balancing effect was a wonderful way of helping your bondmate deal with stress or sorrow, but it should make it completely impossible to find _pleasure_ in the other’s pain.

As far as Jazz could imagine the only thing that could possibly happen if one very excited mech merged with a severely distressed one – assuming the disharmony of the unmatched sparks didn’t result in instant spark failure and deactivation – was that the excited one would immediately feel the negative effects from the other spark while his own excitement waned. Unless you really cared for the mech and wanted to help there was nothing to be gained by such an act. Or was there?

The saboteur shook his helm and dropped the subject. There was little use in speculating; maybe things worked differently if the sparks weren’t bonded to begin with, or for gestalt members in general. He had no points of reference beside his own experience, which wasn’t really comparable on any level, and it wasn’t as if understanding Vortex’s motives would change anything at this point anyway.

It was with immense relief Jazz suddenly felt the blocks on Prowl’s side of the bond finally drop and let him in again. The intense mix of anxiety and anger radiating from his mate hardly came as a surprise and the Porsche met it with a wave of _support-love-determination._

Finally satisfied that the tactician’s systems were now running smoothly if still slowly Ratchet subspaced his scanner and produced two cubes of medical grade energon that he put beside the berth.

“Everything looks fine,” he said to the two black and whites. “Prowl, you need to stay off your pedes until tomorrow, even if you feel ready to get up. Drink one of these cubes tonight and the other tomorrow; that should be enough to compensate for the shock to your systems.”

“But Smokescreen-” the Praxian started to protest but was quickly interrupted by the medic.

“I’m going straight back to him and you have my word I’ll let you know the minute I discover something important. You hovering in the medbay isn’t going to help at this point, so the best thing you can do for him right now is to take care of yourself. No matter what happens the immediate future will be trying for you and we need to make sure you are fully functional and stable enough to handle it. I recommend you talk this whole mess through with Jazz, or as much of it as you can.”

There was still something wild in the Praxian’s gaze but he nodded in acceptance of the medic’s orders.

“Good,” Ratchet concluded, then turned to Jazz. “Do you have any damage beyond what’s visible?”

“No,” the saboteur replied. “It’s all cosmetic ‘cept for the visor and Ah have replacements for that.”

“Good, then further repairs can wait,” the medic decided and rose. “Make sure that mate of yours behaves and call me if anything changes for the worse. He should be past the stage of physical outbursts but I’d rather be safe than sorry, so don’t leave him alone until we know for sure. If you need something from outside, comm. someone to get it for you. I’ll make sure everyone knows not to disturb you unless called for.”

“We’d appreciate that,” Jazz said. “Thanks”

With a final nod the medic made for the door, leaving the two officers’ quarters to return to the medbay and a very complicated scan and code analysis. Left in his wake was a silence that lasted for nearly two kliks before Jazz finally broke it. He knew he needed to get Prowl thinking rationally again, and the best way of doing that was to supply him with a reasonably challenging but manageable problem to solve.

“So,” he began, “how exactly do ya propose we go about killin’ the Combaticons?"

The grim, joyless smile that appeared on the Praxian’s face would have easily given Megatron himself nightmares.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback are very much appreciated.


End file.
